


Under a Blood Moon

by KitLlwynog, pandastern



Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: After the main story, Bath Sex, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Daedra, Daedric Cults, F/M, Lots of Cursing, Musical catastrophes, Rhys has a foul mouth, Sexytimes, Skooma overdose, Torture, Vampires, Werewolves, an ongoing rp, they do not know how to do relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 07:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 64,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15968003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitLlwynog/pseuds/KitLlwynog, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandastern/pseuds/pandastern
Summary: Oliver Davies-Thorne is a 300 year old vampire, spending his immortality looking for a distraction. Rhys of Valenwood is the former Vestige and Champion of Meridia, running from the sacrifices only she remembers. When a murder investigation leads to a rogue cult of Mephala, they become entangled in something bigger than either of them planned for.But they may have also discovered something worth fighting for.





	1. A New Investigation

Night fell on Kvatch, and a lean figure strode purposefully across the the street toward The Eight Blessings. Oliver Davies-Thorne had been staying in city for a week, and he finally had a lead in his investigation. Rhys of Valenwood; even the name was a contradiction. A female wood elf with a name from his own homeland, who would’ve thought?

He took a deep breath as he put his hand on the door handle, steeling himself for the cacophony he knew he would find inside. Then he pulled open the door. The scents of food and ale and sweat washed over him, along with the frenzied staccato of twenty heartbeats beating in disharmony. But there was another smell that drew his attention, overriding the lingering discomfort of the presence of so many mortals. Werewolf.

His kind had a natural dislike for the children of Hircine, being scions of Molag Bal. Supposedly. Oliver wasn't sure how much he believed that. He’d never felt any connection to Coldharbour, or even other vampires. In any case, he had trained himself away from instinctual aggression through long, painful effort, so he had no feelings about the werewolf except curiosity, and a hint of caution. The ancestral hatred was mutual after all. He scanned the room, nodding toward the innkeeper in acknowledgement, and then he saw her in the corner, a red-headed female Bosmer with her back to him. He approached at a steady pace, so as not to alarm her.

“Excuse me, would you by any chance be Rhys of Valenwood?”

***************

Rhys sensed the vampire the moment the door opened. The smell of undead had materialized in the city a few days ago, but she had been hoping to avoid it. Ever since she'd basically kicked the Prince of Rage in his proverbial balls and retrieved her soul, she'd had next to no dealings with Molag Bal or his progeny. Which was just the way she liked it. But it seemed her luck had come to an end. The stench of death wafted from the open door, and she scrunched her nose.

Rhys sighed and took a deep swing of bitter ale from her mug. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the footsteps of the stranger, too steady for a mortal. But he wasn't a normal vampire either. He spoke, and his voice was smooth and cool as silk, not the undead gurgle she had come to expect from his kind.

She turned toward him at a leisurely pace, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp with all the nonchalance she could muster. He didn't look like any vampire she'd encountered before either. If it weren't for the smell, he could have been any man, a Breton, she guessed, near thirty, with dark, wavy hair. His eyes weren't normal for a man though; they were crimson like a Dunmer.

“Well, that depends on who’s asking,” she said, her luminous amber eyes narrowed, and her lips curved into a dangerous smirk. “You’re not an Altmer nor a cat so that’s a good start, but bloodsuckers usually steer clear from me. The last ones that crossed my path were from the nest in Valenwood that I cleaned out.”

He smiled, a cool, professional smile that did not reach his eyes. “My name is Oliver Davies-Thorne. I’ve been hired by House Valorus to investigate the death of their heir, Honoria. I’ve heard you may have some information about that.”

Rhys scowled. She’d never heard of him, but clearly he knew something about her. Behind his bland introduction was knowledge. There was no reason to ask her about the death of some random noblewoman. Unless, of course, you knew she was a member of the Dark Brotherhood. 

The vampire was still talking. It was odd, she thought. Despite knowing that she was both a werewolf and an assassin, she was almost sure he was purposefully making himself as non-threatening as possible. “Many of my kind are nothing but mindless predators, it is true, but I assure you, I have no intention of feeding from you. I prefer my victims willing.”

"What and who you eat is not my business. As long as you don't plan on putting me on a plate I have no issue with you,” Rhys said with flat pragmatism. She set the cup in her hand down onto the counter, her eyes scanning over the man before her. He was taller than she was, but that was no accomplishment. Anyone was taller than her. Didn't mean she wasn't able to rip his head off.

"It seems to me you are in quite a pickle, Mr. Vampire. I have no business with you nor with the Valorus family,” she said, her outward amusement not fully concealing the barb in her tone. “Even if I did, I don't kiss and tell."

“I’ve never heard anyone refer to assassination as kissing before,” the vampire replied with a sardonic arch of his eyebrow, his lips curving upward noticeably. 

_What an interesting development,_ Rhys thought. A bloodsucker with a sense of humor. It made her want to keep playing. “It is when you do it right,” she purred. “But I have nothing to say to you, so unless you want to experience that sort of kiss for yourself, you'd best be on your way.” Her cup had been refilled, and she picked up and looked at the vampire over the rim.

He shifted his weight, obviously considering both her and her words. “I have no wish to make an enemy of you, so I will take my leave. However, if you should chance to hear any information, I would appreciate it,” he said. “I’ll be staying at the Mage’s Guild in town for several weeks looking for leads. Have a pleasant evening.” He turned and made his way out of tavern.

Rhys followed him with her eyes, the way he moved with unnatural grace. She found him… unsettling. She knew there were vampires that still had their minds, who were able to think and act pretty much like a person. But this… Oliver Thorne was different. She frowned. 

Had he really expected her to confess? To look up at him with doe-eyes and say, “Yes, I cut that bitch just yesterday!”

In truth, the name was vaguely familiar. Perhaps she had read it in her contract book. She’d killed so many people, and who had the time to memorize the names of the dead…

But if the vampire had known to ask her, it wasn't just an idle inquiry. He was searching for something. What if his questions led him to the hidden sanctuary just a stone’s throw outside the city walls? He would surely be killed, but the cost to the Brotherhood would be high. And who would get the blame?

Damnit. She didn't want to be involved in this; it went against what was left of every one of her principles. Despite her misgivings, she tossed some coins on the table and jogged out into the street. 

The vampire was walking slowly toward the corner, almost as if he expected her, the bastard. Around them, the city was dark and quiet. Respectable citizens of Kvatch didn't run around at this time of night. “Thorne… wait a minute,” she called, running a hand through her hair.

He turned, and even in the darkness she could see his expression, interest tempered by caution. She let out a breath before speaking, but it still spilled out in a rush.

“I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, but if this woman has been killed by the Dark Brotherhood, then you're looking at the wrong place for answers. We don't pick our targets. We just do what we’re paid for. If you want to find the person responnsible for her death, look in her inner circle. Someone must have hated her enough to perform the Black Sacrament.”

“My primary motive is to get paid,” he said with the ghost of a smile. “My client wishes to know who killed their daughter, both for information about their enemies and for the purposes of vengeance, I assume. Of which I will have no part in, I might add. One hopes they would not be foolish enough to take on the Dark Brotherhood. Thank you, for the information.”

Rhys shrugged. She still wasn't sure why she'd helped him. It was for the good of the Brotherhood, she told herself. What other reason was there? “Just keep away from the Dark Brotherhood.”

“I will keep that in mind,” he said, his tone tinged with amusement. “I have a feeling we will see each other again.” He vanished in a cloud of smoke, and she scowled.

“I damn well hope not.”

***********************

Three days later, Oliver was prowling around the back of the estate of Hjall Stonehearth. The man had opposed House Valorus in the Council on more than one occasion, but more recently, it was rumored that Honoria had rejected his son’s advances. A ridiculous motive for murder, perhaps, but people had been killed for much less.

It was too late at night to expect to hear any sort of conversation, and Oliver had no intention of breaking into the house. What he was hoping to find were traces of blood. The ritual to summon the Dark Brotherhood required some grisly components, and if the assassins were as prompt as they usually were, there should be remnants. He doubted the perpetrator would have had the foresight to do the ritual away from home, as they would not have wanted to chance being discovered.

However, even for a vampire, week old human blood could be hard to discern around a large estate. So far, he’d only discovered where someone had killed a chicken, probably for their dinner, and the body of a dog who’d been unfortunate enough to run into a couple of wolves. He pressed himself against the back of the barn as a guard passed by, and then an unexpected scent washed over his nostrils. Once again, he smelled a werewolf. It only took him a moment to verify his suspicion that it was indeed Rhys of Valenwood. 

A moment after he caught her scent, he heard faint sounds, behind and above him. A mortal would not have perceived them; the quiet hiss of drawn breath, the heartbeat, kept slow and steady by long training, but Oliver turned slowly toward the source of the noise and waited. He expected her to say something, or perhaps to ignore him entirely. He was not at all prepared to be leaped upon, however, so he fell hard on his back, landing with Rhys on top, her knife at his throat. He could have dislodged her, but considering the circumstances, he flashed her a feral grin.

“I do not appreciate being stalked, Mr. Vampire,” she growled, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I am not here for you, madam,” he said in a low voice. “I am investigating Hjall Stonehearth for the murder you claimed to know nothing about. I’m beginning to suspect that you weren’t being entirely truthful. Although,” he added, his smile widening, “This isn’t an entirely unpleasant situation to find myself in. I have never had a woman on top of me who was also threatening to kill me. I find it an intriguing change of pace.” This teasing was mostly intended to be disarming, but there was something about the way her golden eyes blazed with anger that stirred his blood.

“You're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong,” she growled and for a moment her voice sounded too deep, too guttural for a woman of her stature. “Of course I wasn't truthful. What the hell did you expect? A complete detailed report of the murder and home address of the one who ordered the kill? Are you daft?”

“I am doing my job,” he said with a hint of irritation, unfazed by the evidence of her partial transformation, “Just as you are doing yours. I may not have expected your cooperation, but that doesn’t mean I cannot wish for it.” Her blade pressed at his throat, sharp enough to part the skin almost without him feeling it, and she grinned in a way that bared her canines. The dagger wasn’t silver, so he knew the wound would heal instantly, and her smile was giving him ideas that weren’t entirely appropriate to the situation.

“I told you before,” she chuckled, “if you do it right, a blade can be like a kiss…”

“Perhaps, but I would wager my kisses are far more pleasurable,” he said with a brief flash of his fangs. “For one thing, you will be alive afterward.” Unfortunately, he never got to hear what she might’ve said in response because all at once he heard someone approaching, she rolled away, and he leaped to his feet, only to be shoved unceremoniously inside the barn.

Rhys put her hands together and whispered something, and a soft glow emanated from her fingers. The light expanded until it formed a luminous dome over both of them, and then it disappeared.

“A silencing spell,” she explained casually, twirling her blade between her fingers. “You've got some nerve showing up here, and your timing is rather terrible. Hjall Stonehearth will be Stonedead soon.” A wide grin split her face. Clearly, she believed her pun to be the height of comedy.

“I am familiar with the spell,” he said. “And as I said before, I am here to investigate, not to interfere with you.” He frowned, too annoyed by the revelation to appreciate the wordplay.

“So Hjall is your next target. Might I ask who wants him dead?” he asked, with little expectation of receiving an answer.

Rhys’s brow furrowed for a moment. She was actually considering replying, he realized with some surprise. “He is, and in case you have some deranged plan to stop me, it won't matter. if I don’t slit his throat, someone else will. His life belongs to Sithis, one way or another,” she said, placing one hand in her hip, the other stilll twirling her blade. “I guess you aren't working fast enough,” she added with a challenging grin. “Honoria’s mother was the one who performed the sacrament. She paid a handsome sum.”

“It was the father who hired me, not the mother,” Oliver replied. “Perhaps he didn’t inform his wife. Or maybe he did but she doesn’t trust his judgement.” He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. 

Rhys scoffed at his words. “Can you blame her? No one trusts people like us. They would be fools to do so,” she said shaking her head. “We are not like them.”

He wasn’t sure whether to agree or disagree with her assessment. After 300 years of life, his mindset was certainly different than that of most mortals, but on the other hand he had never subscribed to the, in his opinion, dangerous view that vampires were superior beings. Nor did he believe them to be inherently evil. “I'm not sure it has as much to do with us as with the state of their marriage.”

Rhys shrugged. “That's all I’m going to say. Even if I wanted to help you, I swore an oath,” she added with a scowl.

“I don’t intend to keep you from your work. One day, perhaps you’ll even believe me,” he said, blowing a sharp breath out his nose. Working with this bosmer was occasionally like picking flowers from a stinging nettle. But she did seem to respond well to teasing, and It wasn't as if he minded. She wasn’t unattractive, and their verbal sparring was certainly enjoyable. 

He grinned as the idea took shape. “I do still need information, however. How would you like to join me in a little game? I’ll get Hjall to tell me what he knows, if I have to suck the knowledge right out of his head. Then you may do as you wish. I can get you inside in complete silence, if you are willing to trust me,” he added with an arched eyebrow.

She circled around him like a dog sizing up an opponent. Appropriate, for a werewolf, he supposed. “A game, hmmm?” she murmured, “You do know that I don't need your help to get in and out of this place…right? A game needs a prize, but the one you're offering is not something I need. But, I am intrigued…” She stepped closer and pulled down her hood, her hair glinting like spilled blood around her face as she leaned forward. Her smile turned wicked, her golden eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight.

He arched his eyebrow as she stepped closer. She was a little thing, in comparison to his lanky frame, but he had no doubt that she was his equal in physical prowess. It was an alluring prospect. “If you aren’t motivated by the simple curiosity of seeing vampire powers at work, I’m not sure what prize would motivate you. I cannot read your mind. Unless you wish me to,” he added, his eyes glittering with both humor and challenge. Feeling daring, he twirled one of her errant scarlet locks around his finger and pushed it back inside her hood.

“How about this, I will give you two minutes with my Target,” she purred, “and you think of a better prize for this game. After all, it's no fun if there’s nothing to gain for both parties…. no?” With her dagger, she stopped the hand that had carefully brushed her hair back and pushed it slowly away from her, the sharp edge of the blade kissing his skin.

 _She does like her knives,_ he thought with amusement, though he barely felt the bite of it against his wrist. Her eyes were like closed doors, full of secrets that he wanted to discover. He never could turn down a challenge. “I am aware that you could get inside undetected on your own, but the way I propose would be much more exciting.” 

It had taken a hundred years to figure out how to take someone with him using his vampiric teleportation powers, but he’d known it could be done, considering his clothes always came with him. Usually, he used this power to bring his victims home to their beds, making them believe their encounter had been a dream, but there were certainly other uses.

A smile tugged on her lips. “Don’t take this personal, love, but I am not the most trusting person,” she said, stepping a little closer, their bodies almost touching. Oliver's skin prickled at the tension between them. “While I’m sure your bougie little magic tricks can be good fun, I'm not interested in letting you take me anywhere.” 

She pulled back, the blade vanishing in its sheath. Her movements were supernaturally fluid in a way that entranced him. He shook himself; now wasn't the time to be distracted. “Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging. 

“Try to keep up,” she replied, giving him a little wink before breaking the silence spell and slipping out into the dark. “We’ll talk about prizes later.”

****************************

Rhys moved through the night without making a sound, knowing he would find her. She moved towards the main house, dodging the guards easily, and pulled herself up the wall. Her nose told her the target was upstairs, most likely in his quarters.

A colleague had scouted out the mansion before, so she knew there was a small window below her that was always open at night. Conveniently, it led to the hallway right outside the main living quarters. Only rich fools thought themselves untouchable enough to leave a weak point like this. 

It didn't take long to find the window. She slipped inside the silent, empty hallway. No candles were burning, but that was just as she preferred. Scent indicated that Hjall was just beyond the nearest door. Rhys sank into a crouch to wait for Oliver. Even after everything that had happened to her, she was an elf of her word.

With only a whisper of sound, he teleported into the hallway behind her. She nodded and turned the doorknob. “Wait a moment,” he whispered, reaching out to stop her, but it was too late. The door opened soundlessly, and nothing happened. Giving the vampire a skeptical look, Rhys hesitated, listening. Something wasn’t right. This close to a target with no intervening walls, she should be able to hear him breathing, but there wasn't a sound.

Her hand went for her dagger, her brows furrowing. “No breaths,” she whispered. 

“No heartbeat, either,” he muttered. She drew a deep breath through her nose; nothing smelled suspicious, so she gestured for Oliver to follow before slipping silently into the bedroom. Shadows clung to her small frame as she drew closer to the bed.

Hjall Stoneheart was already dead. The sight wasn't pretty to say the least. His skin was purple, and foam dripped from his mouth. A faint sweet aroma tickled her nose. Poison… A poison she knew too well. “Shit,” she growled, “There goes my payment.”

Oliver bared his teeth in frustration. “You _could_ always take credit for the murder, but he was my only lead.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That’s not how it works!” she hissed. “This is an unfulfilled contract! A daedric contract!” She started to circle the room, looking for clues that could tell her what happened.

Oliver turned away, and maybe he might have left, but the sounds of shouting and slamming doors echoed up the stairs. It was difficult to make out words through the chaos, but there was definitely something about intruders and guards. Two cool hands grabbed her and pulled her into a dark closet that smelled like old shoes. It took her a few moments to realise what happened, he had been so incredibly fast! She hadn’t even seen him move, and they had been just in time. Feet pounded down the hallway and into the bedroom. 

Rhys’s heart hammered as her body flooded with adrenaline. Every instinct she possessed screamed danger, driving her need to bite and scratch herself free. 

Luckily, years of training had given her control over those instincts. She took some deep breaths, Oliver’s scent filling her lungs. Under the aromas of cold and death, she noticed a hint of something earthy that she couldn’t quite place. A remnant of his mortal life perhaps?

“The door is open,” said a rough voice with a Nord accent. “I could’ve sworn it was closed earlier.” The footsteps moved closer, swords and armor clinking, followed by a gasp. “Dead! Hjall has been murdered!”

She tried to move, just to orient her limbs in a less awkward position, but she became painfully aware that she was squeezed flush against the rigid body of the vampire. One of her legs was weirdly draped almost over his hip, the other pressed between his legs.

Great. Just absolutely great. This was the worst possible position to be caught in, ever. She made the mistake up looking up, and barely restrained a shout. Despite his cursed tallness, their faces were just inches apart. The closet was so small that he had to bend over weirdly to fit.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!” she hissed breathlessly, blood pounding in her ears, “We could have just killed them!”

He scowled at her, and pressed his fingers to the wood of the closet. She recognized a slightly different casting of Muffle. Now at least no one could hear them. “Yes, more murder would certainly solve this problem,” he replied sourly, but there was a new hint of roughness to his voice. She liked it, and hated that she did.

Again she tried to move into a more comfortable position, preferably somewhere away from the vampire, but there was no room to move. His eyes glinted in the darkness.

“If you get a boner I will chop it off,” she growled but once the idea occurred to her, she couldn't dismiss it. The question escaped her mouth before she could stifle it.

“Actually, now that I’m saying that…can you get a boner?  How can vampires get boners? I mean… do you need to drink first to get it going?”

“As for the average vampire, I cannot say. Many of them are rather closer to corpses than I am,” he murmured, and he moved his mouth closer to her ear, almost grazing it with his lips. “But yes, I can. I would be willing to give you a private demonstration of my many _supernatural_ talents at another time.”

A unwanted shiver ran down her spine as his breath tickled her skin, and she caught herself… considering his offer. Rhys shook herself. She wasn't a miserable damsel, to be swooped up like some sort of… tawdry novel.

Games though. She liked games. Lips curling into a dangerous smirk, she wrapped her leg that was draped over him tightly around his hip. He wasn’t lying about his assets, at least.

"Oh, I bet you will,” she purred, "but you'd wake up to a nice deep throat. Which means a silver blade deep inside your throat. Are you willing to pay that price?" He tensed at her words, like he'd been slapped.

“It’s the Dark Brotherhood that’s done it. Just like to the Valorus girl,” said one of the men outside.

“He ain’t been dead that long,” another hissed. “They might even still be in the room.”

Her adrenaline spiked again, instincts ready to jump at the threat. She knew she could handle those guards on her own, but the noise would alert more. Even she couldn't take everyone on the estate. Maybe she shouldn't have antagonized Mr. Vampire quite so much. Not that it wasn't fun, but now she couldn't be sure she could count on his help.

“Now, will you permit me to teleport away from here?” he asked, his voice back its usual frostiness. As it should be, she reminded herself. She needed to search that room, but there was no way it was happening now. If she didn't take him up on his offer, she'd probably be stuck in the closet for hours with no one to back her up.

"Fuck... fine Do your bloody thing but don't try anything funny! Or I'll crush your skull in my jaw,” she growled. 

********************

She was interested, he was sure. He could hear her heartbeat speed and smell the barest change in her scent. Her leg hooked over his hip, pulling him closer to her inviting heat. He licked his lips… and then she threatened to cut his throat. He growled with frustration and annoyance. If he could, he would have shoved her away, but as it was, there was nowhere for her to go but out into the room, and even he wasn’t that vengeful.

“Infuriating woman,” he hissed. “I ought to leave you here, since you’re so eager to stab people.” But instead, he put his arm around her waist, perhaps a bit more roughly than he would have done in ordinary circumstances, and with a rush of darkness, they were on the roof, then the ground, then the trees outside the estate. He let her go speedily, before she decided to resort to actual violence, and stood more than arm’s length away, scowling.

“Since my only lead is now dead, I intend to investigate who might benefit from this chaos. I suspect it must be someone close to Honoria’s mother, since she is the one who requested your presence. If you wish to speak to me, you know where I’ll be,” he said, and he turned on his heel and stalked into the darkness. He needed a drink, a bath, and a good book to cleanse himself of this entire irritating situation.


	2. Steps in the Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver gets a surprise in his bed, and they decide what to do about the information they’ve uncovered. After a moonlight walk, Rhys discovers it’s not so easy to let Mr. Vampire walk away.

It had been a difficult evening for Oliver. Earlier in the week, he had returned to the Stonehearth estate, and finally found a lead. There was a fresh human skull in the refuse pile, but finding where it had come from had proved troublesome. Not until today had the trail borne fruit, after leading him through several basements and a graveyard. But the result was much more disturbing than he expected. So he returned to the Guild and borrowed several books on Daedric cults from the library, already starting to read one of them as he went up the stairs. 

Though the Kvatch branch of the Mages’ Guild was not one he frequented, he was treated well, as he was a long-standing member. They were well aware of his proclivities, and did their best to provide for both his comfort and everyone else’s. One of the alchemists kept him supplied with Blood potions, which was not as invigoraating as the blood of a sentient creature, but it was close. So the Guild headquarters was one of the few places he felt relatively safe. As such, he had already shed his jacket and vest, his wide-sleeved black linen shirt was open at the collar, and his hair was loose. He unlocked his door with a spell, not even looking up from his book until a voice jolted him from his thoughts.

Not just a voice. Her voice. Rhys, the werewolf of Valenwood. Lying on his bed with a suggestive smirk and stretching like an oversized cat.

“Well, hello there, Mr. Vampire,” she purred, “Guess who’s here to sweeten your night?”

Her words barely registered as his brain and his body warred over how to react. Everything from her posture to her smile was a mute invitation. She was unarmored and dressed casually; tight brown leather pants hugging her form and a loose white shirt that was slightly unbuttoned at her throat. No visible weapons. But, she was an assassin, and given their previous interactions, she must know he was attracted to her. It stood to reason she might try to use this fact to lure him into complacency. Also, he hadn’t forgotten the way she’d jerked him around a week ago. He wasn’t eager to experience it again, and he was annoyed at himself for not recognizing her scent far earlier. He closed the book.

“That remains to be seen. If you are here on the Dark Brotherhood’s business, I suggest you reconsider, as I am rather fond of you, for some reason. If you are not, you had better tell me what you want. I am in no mood for games today.”

“Fond of me? Oh my,” she said, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she rolled lazily onto her back. He elected not to answer, not quite trusting himself to speak or move while she rolled around on his bed in gleeful abandon. Her scent was going to be all over the sheets, and he wasn’t sure whether to be disgusted or aroused. She sighed, sticking out her bottom lip. “How sad. Games are the only fun thing about you, Oliver.”

“My apologies for not being more entertaining,” he said with a scowl. Her smile returned. Why did he get the feeling that she enjoyed annoying him?

“No need to get your undead knickers in a twist,” she said, sitting up and assuming a mostly serious expression. “I'm here to repay a debt. You did get me out of trouble at the Stonehearth place.”

He snorted. That was one way to put it. “Go on,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I recognised the poison that killed that mangy bastard, Hjall,” Rhys said. “I’m the one who rediscovered it, over a decade ago. It comes from a rare plant that only grows in Valenwood. I stumbled upon the memories of the last people to use it, a clan of my people who were about to lose a war and wanted to make sure their enemies didn't live to enjoy their victory.”

She fell silent. For a moment he thought he saw something in her face, grief deeply buried coming to the surface. It was gone so quickly he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it. But it bothered him, and he didn’t know why. “I’m afraid I don't understand. How would poisoning themselves hurt the enemy? I could see wanting to avoid being made prisoners…” 

A memory came back to him, of his first visit to Valenwood over a hundred years ago. The Green Pact was much more complicated and difficult than outsiders were ever shown, and the realization of what she meant made him shudder. “Never mind.”

“What was that face for?” she asked with a dangerous grin. “It’s not like you can talk. You suck people’s blood. You’re basically dead… well almost. How is being carnivorous any different?”

“There is a difference between drinking someone’s blood and carving them up into steaks,” Oliver said sourly. “It’s neater, for one thing. And besides, it is not as if I chose vampirism. You act like there was a pamphlet. Dubious immortality for the low, low price of being forced to feed on others or starve. Exciting benefits include being unable to go out during the day, severe silver allergy, and getting to watch everyone you ever have or will love die of old age.” He shook his head. His thoughts were turning maudlin and that was never a good sign if he wanted to think clearly. “In any case, I made no moral jugdements, but it is not a philosophy that would appeal to me.”

“Ugh, you’re almost as bad as the altmer. Neat is no fun! ” she groaned and flopped back onto his bed. “The Green Pact is for our protection. I once got dragged into this mess of a village that got attacked by everything in the forest, animals, plants, trees, for seemingly no reason. After a little investigation, it turned out nature went absolutely insane because one person had plucked a flower. Almost everyone in the village was killed over one flower.” She shook her head. “You're such a killjoy… but I get it. I didn’t choose this either.”

By this, he assumed she meant her lycanthropy. For some reason, he found himself wishing to know the story behind it. He cleared his throat. “Neatness may not be fun, but you must admit it is useful. I rarely leave evidence. Only another vampire, or a werewolf, I suppose, could track me when I do not wish to be found. In any case, if you're the one who discovered this poison, how did it find it's way into Hjall Stonehearth?”

“I… gave the information to my superior. I thought they might find an antidote or… something. But I guess the Dominion must be making use of it for themselves.” She looked down at the ground, and he sighed.

The news about Dominion involvement was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. He pressed his fingers to this temples. “Of course this couldn’t be simple. I take it you are no longer in the Dominion’s employ?”

“Of course not,” she said, almost a snarl. Her expression was bitter. Perhaps it was best not to inquire further.

He sat down in the chair across from the bed, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I’ve discovered something as well. I finally found the skull that Stonehearth used to summon the Dark Brotherhood, but in trying to discover where it might have come from, I learned of a series of murders in Kvatch, all associated with a secret cult of Mephala. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except that one of Lady Valorus’ closest friends also happens to have a shrine to Mephala in her cellar. I’m not sure what to make of it yet.”

Rhys frowned. “That’s unexpected… If there’s a murderer loose I should have heard about it. The Dark Brotherhood keeps tabs on that sort of thing, but they haven't said anything about it to me.”

“Most of the murders were quite old,” Oliver said. “Decades even. This new one was a man who supposedly died in a household accident. But he had a mark burned onto the inside of his skull, which led me to the cult.”

“That doesn't seem right. If those two murders are really related… I can’t believe the Aldmeri Dominion would work with Mephala. Queen Ayren would never allow it,” she asserted, her fists clenched on her knees.

It was curious, he thought, as he watched Rhys talk her way through the rest of their information. She was quick enough to protest involvement with the Dominion, as if they had parted on bad terms, but still held deep respect for the Queen. The contrast intrigued him.

“Obviously, I have no personal knowledge of the Queen, but forgive me for being cynical,” he said, resting his chin on his hands. “Those in power tend to excuse a great deal when it suits whatever they deem a greater purpose. But perhaps she is not aware of everything her subordinates do. Or it might be a coincidence, or a false lead. A cult of Mephala may even being using the Dominion for their own ends. There is no way of knowing without investigating further, but it does seem as though we’ve stumbled into something more complicated than either of us realized. What do you intend to do now?”

“Ayren is a good queen, strong and wise,” she said slowly, “but you’re right. Things change, and even the best people fall victim to temptation. Maybe part of her court has gone bad, and turned to the Daedra. Or the poison could be completely unrelated.”

Rhys sighed, running her fingers through her crimson hair. 

“I’m not sure. I usually try to stay as far away as possible from things involving the Dominion, especially when Daedric cults and murder conspiracies are on the table. But this doesn't feel like something I can ignore. So… I’ll have to investigate.”

He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I also intend to continue investigating. The book I was reading a moment ago revealed that there is an old temple of Mephala to the north of here. I thought I might make a visit in hopes of finding more clues. Would you like to accompany me, or are you planning to go directly to Summerset?”

At this point, he wasn’t even sure what to hope for. He wasn’t going to deny that he enjoyed her company, even if she drove him mad on occasion. Perhaps it was only that it had been many years since he had a friend. Someone who wasn’t afraid of him. Her attractiveness didn’t hurt, but it was also the main source of his consternation. She acted like she wanted him, but every time their flirting reached past the point of innuendo, she threatened to murder him in increasingly grisly ways. It was more than mildly infuriating. It wasn’t as if he lacked willing partners; if she chose to go her own way, then perhaps he’d be free of the constant impulse to shove her against the wall and kiss her silly.

Rhys broke into a joyless laugh at his suggestion. “Oh yeah, I’m gonna march straight into the royal palace and ask the Queen if she's kissing up to Mephala. That’ll go well.” She shook her head in exasperation. “No. Confronting the Dominion without proof won’t get us anywhere. But since you’re so kindly offering, I suppose I can spare some of my precious time and immense skill for this temple,” she said, winking at him cheekily.

Oliver rolled his eyes. “That is hardly what I meant. If you have contacts there, you might be able to discover information in the capital. However, I would welcome your assistance, since you do, in fact, possess skills that I do not.”

"It would be the same outcome. There is no connection between me and the Dominion,” she said with a tone of finality. She looked him up and down, almost appraising, and produced a small ball of black glass from her pocket. Perhaps he ought to have been concerned, but considering she'd agreed to accompany him, he doubted she had something nefarious planned. “The night is still young, love,” she said with a playful grin. “Shall we go on a moonlight walk?”

Her eyes sparkled with flirtatious mischief. He couldn’t deny that this was the side of her mercurial personality that had originally sparked his interest, but given their previous interactions, he wasn’t sure whether to respond. He’d never had such difficulty divining what someone wanted before, which was equal parts frustrating and fascinating. Despite the protests of his rational mind, he decided to accept this impromptu invitation.

“A walk? I can hardly believe that you are capable of such a staid activity,” he said, his mouth quirking upward, “But I accept, if only to see what you actually plan.” 

She gave him a cocky smirk and placed a hand on her hip. "Oh Oliver, you have no idea what I’m capable of. I might exceed your wildest hopes and dreams," she purred, as she let the orb fall from her hand and onto the ground. It cracked, just as if it were made of glass, emitting black smoke that seemed to cling to her body, obscuring her from view. When the air cleared, her casual clothes were gone, replaced by the tight black leather gear she'd been wearing the first time they met. It wasn't a spell Oliver recognized, but he supposed it could be useful, if one was in the habit of wearing armor.

“A clever trick, I must admit,” he said, rising and pulling his long, wool jacket from the coat rack and sweeping it around himself. “But I think my wildest hopes and dreams would surprise you.” After three hundred years of life, much of it spent traveling Tamriel, the things he most wanted were all the things he’d scorned in his youth. A normal life. A family. The most indulgent thing he desired was to be able to eat again. He missed cake. And cheese. He was sure a woman like Rhys would find this information laughable.

“How would you prefer to depart, via traditional means, or something more inventive?” he asked, gesturing toward the window. Not being fond of having his every movement observed, he usually left his room in that way, unless he had reason for wanting others to know where he was.

Sighing deeply, she pulled up her hood before turning towards him and offering her gloved hand. "Since we shouldn't waste time I think your poofy thing should suffice. Just... take it easy? I'd rather skip the nausea of last time if possible."

******************

It wasn't hard see that he was interested in her. Even when he was annoyed, his eyes followed her, like a predator salivating over its next meal. She couldn't deny that she was equally fascinated. It wasn't as if he was unpleasant to look at, with his lean height and dark hair. But more than that, his keen intelligence combined with his clever tongue made him enjoyable to talk to. He had occasional moments of intensity that intrigued her. 

She wanted to break apart his facade of gentility and see what was hidden underneath it. He had secrets, she could sense them as surely as she could see the way his muscles moved under his skin. Certainly as many as she did, if not more. What might he be, if he let loose a little?

Still, she didn't know him very well. If she wanted to see who he really was, they would have to trust each other to some extent, a thought that did not feel entirely natural in her head. Maybe then they could take this game a little further.

She invited him for a walk, and he accepted, as she’d known he would. Teasing him was just a little bonus. The frustration that sometimes slipped through his diciplined behaviour was worth it.

He offered once again to teleport them to their destination, and she hesitated, considering. The time was ticking by and with every hour the sunrise came closer. For her that wouldn't be a problem but for him... She didn't know much about vampires save how they ate and how she could kill them. Would Oliver poof into dust as soon as the sun rose or did the light have to hit his skin first? Would he need a coffin to sleep? He had a bed here, as she knew firsthand. She shook her head to dispel the thought and agreed with the teleport, sighing.

Oliver put his arm around her waist, not roughly as he had before, but still holding her tightly against him. “Close your eyes. It might help with the nausea,” he murmured in her ear. It was odd to be this close to anyone. Rhys couldn't remember the last time she'd been held, and as she closed her eyes and leaned her head on his chest, his scent seemed to curl around her like an invitation. Her heart was racing. 

They moved once, and then again, before the world stopped spinning. He didn't shove her away like last time, and she found herself grateful for the arms around her waist because her knees felt like wilted leaves. He had been right about closing her eyes. She didn't feel like retching, at least.

He released her from his arms and she stepped away, stretching upward until her joints popped. “I must say, as practical as your poofing is, it’s not my favorite way to travel,” she huffed before taking a look around. They were in a garden; it took her a moment to recognize the Cathedral of Akatosh rising up in the darkness. It was farther than she expected he could take them. The garden was empty and silent but for the two interlopers.

She turned back to Oliver. He was standing with his hands in his jacket pockets, breathing deeply. In the distance she could hear a cat prowling in the bushes. “I’m sorry you don’t enjoy as much as I do,” he said with a slight grin. “I find it invigorating.”

Rhys frowned and shook her head. “Not having control over my own body as it vanishes… Not really comfortable,” she said. “As you can imagine, for a werewolf control is crucial.”

Oliver nodded. “Control is important for vampires as well, though not in the same way. At least, it is important for vampires like me, who prefer to live within society rather than apart from it. But the control I require is more about denial than mastery, and now that I am practiced at it, there is a certain relief in letting go, on occasion.” It almost felt like he was reading her mind. Was he offering to relinquish control, or advising it? She wasn't sure. “Shall we walk?” he asked, interrupting her musing and extending his arm in her direction.

She couldn't help snorting. “You know it’s really hard to guess your age because you act weirdly….normal. But then you do stuff like this and one just knows that there’s dust on your shelf,” she said, chuckling but taking his arm nevertheless. “You do know I am the furthest thing from a lady, and you are in fact walking a murderess?”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter. “Would you like to know how old I am? I assure you, I dust myself regularly.” 

She sighed and allowed him to lead her through the garden. One of the moons was hanging bright in the sky, but not quite full. Rhys could feel its power in her blood. Strolling through a park like this almost made her feel like a ordinary woman. Not that that was ever possible. Too much had happened.

The garden wasn’t like the beds of ornamental plants favored by the nobility. All of these plants, she noticed, were useful, for food or medicine, and they were allowed to run a little wild. The overgrown beds of herbs and flowers reminded her of places in the Dominion. There had been an old house, nearly a ruin, she had once almost been able to call it home. Almost…

“I would guess,” she said slowly, “that you’re at least a couple hundred years old. Not old enough to outlast the elders I met in Valenwood but way older than the vampires I’m used too. You radiate power and age is ingrained in your scent.” Probably she didn't need to say that last part. He didn't seem to lack in self-confidence.

“It is a good guess,” he replied. “I have recently passed my three hundredth birthday, though I hardly marked the occasion. I was born in Camlorn, but back then, there wasn’t even a city.”

“Now that I hear you say it, that’s really old. A little more dust than I expected. Will there be white clouds coming out of your hair when I run my hands through them?” she joked a little. Was it her imagination that he shivered? 

“I suppose you’ll have to try it and see,” he said in a low voice, his mouth curving upwards. “I promise, I do bathe.” There was certainly promise in his eyes. She had to look away, change the subject.

“Camlorn… I’ve been there. A long time ago. I can’t imagine how much has changed since then, let alone since you were born.”

“In any case,” he said, “One does not have to be of noble birth or delicate constitution to be worthy of respect and gentleness. I admire you for your abilities, and I am curious to understand you, I suppose, but since I have all the time the world, I see no reason to rush.” He turned and grinned down at her in the moonlight. “If all you’re looking for is someone to shove you against a wall, I am afraid you will have to get to know me a bit better. I would say you could buy me dinner but under the circumstances, that might be a little awkward.”

His grin made her lips follow suit and before she could stop herself, she was smiling right back at him. There was a sense of ease between them now and that frightened her.

Too close, too close.

Slowly she pulled out of his arm and stepped back a little, strolling towards a bed of moonflowers. “You seem very sure of yourself and the time that you have at your disposal,” she said. “What makes you think I will be around after this mess is cleared up?”

He arched an eyebrow in her direction, though his posture had stiffened. “Considering that the older I get, the more difficult it is to kill me, time is something I usually have a surplus of. However, if you’re in a hurry to get away from me, there is hardly anything I can do about that.”

Rhys bit her lip, trailing a finger over one of the delicate blossoms. “I want nothing from no one,” she said. It was a resolute law she had given herself ten years ago. She wasn't sure whether she was informing him or reminding herself. “That leaves me with the question… what do you really want?”

He sighed. “What I want is for you to trust me, so that I may come to know you. I find you interesting, but if you will not meet me halfway, I have no to wish to chase after you. I am too old for that sort of nonsense. If you want nothing, then there is certainly nothing I can offer to entice you,” he said, his tone frustrated but not only that. There were hints of resignation and buried pain in his reply. She heard his footsteps starting to retreat.

Rhys felt a pang of disappointment in her heart. It was to her own surprise that she turned and before she could stop herself words had stumbled out of her mouth. “I’m sorry.” He froze. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to take back the apology or keep going. 

It wasn’t like her to mind when people turned away. She had chosen solitude; it should be normal at this point. But it had been so long since she had anyone to talk to. Oliver was interesting. He was intelligent. She hadn’t realised how much she had missed the pleasure of witty conversation. The thought that they might never speak again was painful, more so even than the icy spike of fear lodged in her heart. 

“I…,” she sighed painfully and ran her hands through her hair, knocking her hood off in the process. “I realise… that I’m being difficult. I’ve been alone for a long time… it’s hard for me to… well… this is hard,” she said, gesturing towards both him and the gardens.

“I need… time, I suppose. You’ve given me no reason to mistrust you. I will try to be less hostile next time we meet. Can that be enough for now?” she asked, her golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

He turned back to her, his hands clasped in front of him. “I intend to investigate the temple two nights from now. If you still wish to accompany me, you can meet me outside the entrance, just after sunset.”

Her heart was beating fearfully inside her chest. _Run. Lash out. Hurt him before he hurts you,_ said her mind but she kept still.

“I’ll meet you there,” she said, and it felt like the most difficult sentence she'd ever spoken. Oliver's posture eased and his eyes traveled over her like he was cataloguing the moment.

“I understand that it can be difficult to undo such habits. For my part, I will do my best to be patient, and to remain worthy of your trust.” Before she could say anything, he had melted into smoke, only to reappear right in front of her. She didn't even have time to be alarmed before cold lips brushed her cheek.

“Until then,” he said, a whisper right next to her ear, and then he disappeared into the night.

Rhys stood alone in the garden for a long moment, her hand raised to her face.


	3. Blood in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They investigate the Temple of Mephala. Oliver makes a fateful decision that puts Rhys’s fear in sharp focus. After leaving the temple, they have an argument that will determine the future of their relationship.

Oliver had never expected her to apologize. At best, he thought it would take weeks for her to open up to him this way. His heart thudded once in his chest, heavy and almost painful. He turned back to her, his hands clasped in front of him, taking in the sight of her in the moonlight. Her hair glinted like blood and her expression was raw and vulnerable. He was conscious of the knowledge that he would not forget this moment, no matter how long he lived.

He kissed her smooth, sun-browned cheek. Under the scent of wet fur, there was something else, the aroma of fresh growing things, like Valenwood in a bottle. By the time he got back to his room, he wished he’d done more while also fearing it had been too much. For reasons he could not quite explain even to himself, he left the window unlocked.

Two days later, as soon as the last sliver of red sun slipped over the horizon, a shiver passed through the air. A teleport wove into being and deposited one slightly windswept vampire onto the mossy ground in the forest surrounding the entrance to an ancient, half-ruined temple. Oliver expected combat, so he wore a long coat of black leather with pants and boots to match, all of them with enchantments as strong as he could make. He also had a sword on his right hip, which he prayed he wouldn’t have occasion to use, only because he was a little out of practice.

He extended his vampire senses, but detected nothing unusual. There was one living being in his range of vision, and it was exactly who he had hoped to find. He’d had difficulty sleeping since the night in the garden. That Rhys had showed up was a good sign, he thought, unless she was only waiting to punch him in the face.

He took a deep, mostly unnecessary breath, and approached the temple, adjustung his wide-brimmed hat to keep the last vestiges of sunset from his eyes. She was leaning against the wall, and didn’t immediately leap upon him; it seemed she had no inclination to murder him, as of yet. “Good evening, Rhys,” he said, unable to entirely suppress a smile. “I am glad to see you’ve arrived in one piece.”

She pushed off the wall and strolled down towards him. “Did you honestly expect anything less?” she asked as she pulled back her hood.

“No,” he said with a grin. “I was merely being polite. If I was being completely honest, I might have worried that you would have cleaned out the entire temple out of boredom and left me nothing to do.” His eyes travelled over her form, cataloguing her weapons and armor, but also just because he enjoyed looking at her. She was wearing her usual black leather gear, a dagger dangling from each hip, and no doubt several others concealed about her person.

“Of course you were,” she said with a smirk. “I was thinking about it, but I don’t see why I should be the only one getting attacked by bloody spiders. Especially since most of them are bigger than me.” She looked him up and down and snorted.

“Oh damn. Who are you trying to fight with that hat? Fashion?” she teased, her eyes gleaming with mirth. “At least you went for a clean kill.”

“Excuse me, madam,” he said, putting his hand to his chest, “My hat is intended to protect me from the sun, and as such, was chosen for function rather than something so pointless and transitory as fashion. I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on my wardrobe.”

She burst into laughter. “We are going into a bloody cave! A hood would have done the job just fine. That hat is you being bougie, don’t lie!”

“Bougie?” Oliver’s brow furrowed. It was a slang term he wasn’t familiar with, but if he had been, he would have scoffed. “A hood large enough to shade my whole face would obscure my peripheral vision,” he said loftily. “But if it offends you that much, you’ll be glad to know that I intend to take it off inside.”

Rhys rolled her eyes. “You’d do well in an altmer court. They like being extra too.”

He wondered what she meant by extra. Extra what, exactly? He made a mental note to ask someone about it. “I did have an altmer great-grandfather,” he said, grinning because he knew it would annoy her. If her eyes kept rolling back like that, they might even fall out.

“Of course you have,” she muttered, “Most Bretons do.” That was why some people called the half-elves, though most of their Altmer ancestors were much farther in the past than Oliver's. She shook her head and jabbed her thumb at the temple door behind her.

“The scent of death and decay is seeping through the cracks of the door. I can already tell this is gonna be a shitshow.” 

He breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of bones and blood, and the too sweet aroma of rot. The magical aura of the area was polluted by pain and fear. “I’m afraid you’re correct. We should plan for stiff resistance. Do you have any preferences about strategy? I assume you generally rely on stealth, and while I can certainly move silently, I primarily fight with magic.” Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to find much in the way of information about the temple’s layout. There were several floors, and a large central chamber, but he had no idea what else they would find.

“Yes, I rely on stealth if I can,” she replied, pressing her hands against the door. “It would be best if you stay behind me, as I am proficient in close combat.”

Her plan suited him just fine. At the very least, he trusted that she would have the sense not to step in front of his spells. “Very well. Lead the way.”

Rhys pressed a hidden switch, and the door opened, letting out a rush of fetid air that made his skin crawl. As promised, he rolled up his hat and stuffed it inside his jacket, catching a giant spider skittering away from the corner of his eye. 

“Nice. Spiders. I hate spiders,” Rhys growled, drawing her daggers from their sheaths.

“I suppose we should have expected that, in Mephala’s temple.” He readied a fire spell in his right hand; lightning and ice were his preferred elements, but they wouldn’t do anything against webs. His nose wrinkled at the thought of the sticky, clinging substance. Fire would take care of the repellant creatures and their disgusting homes.

He peered around the semi-darkness of the outer chamber. Besides the webs on the walls, the ground was littered with bones. “Charming decor they have here,” he muttered, and then with a horrible chittering sound, a giant spider rushed toward them. Oliver cast two Fire Bolts in rapid succession before drawing his sword.

Spiders were not one of his favorite opponents. Their pincered mouths and horrifying overabundance of limbs often factored into his nightmares, and he wasn’t sure why. He couldn’t remember being afraid of spiders as a child, when he could remember that far. However, there were many large gaps in his memory from the years just after he became a vampire. It was probably a blessing; the things he could recall were terrible enough, but he did wonder if he’d had some encounter with Mephala’s creatures that might explain the way they made his stomach churn.

Rhys seemed to share his opinion; he didn’t even have time to charge another spell when the second, even larger spider appeared. He ducked away from the creature’s acidic spit, and Rhys slid under it, spilling its guts with a horrible squelch. The stream of invective issuing from her mouth was colorful enough to distract his attention from his own horror and disgust. 

“Fuck Mephala in the ass with Boethiah’s hammer! Great. Just great. When this shit is over I can burn my gear, again! Astara is gonna rip me a new one,” she hissed, shaking the foul substance off her fingers. “I hate Mephala and her critter lot! Why does it have to be spiders?!” She wiped her daggers on her pants and shuddered.

“Your command of vulgar language is truly something to behold,” he said with a half-smile. “If it makes you feel any better, being covered in arachnid entrails barely detracts from your charm.” 

“Sweet talker,” she said with a smirk, having apparently recovered herself. “If you like that, you should hear me in bed.”

His mouth curved upward, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. “Should I take that as an invitation? It is one I’d be glad to accept.”

“Ask me again after we get out of here,” she said, twirling a dagger in her fingers. “Let’s get this over with so I can take a bath.” With a wave of her hands she disappeared into the shadows and moved further into the temple.

He followed her down the corridor, sinking into a crouch and trusting the stealth enchantments on his clothes to do the rest. The next room they came to was a library of sorts. Most of the books were basic magical texts, but there were a few things that caught his attention. He picked up _Creatures of the Night_ and thumbed through it.

“They seem to be interested in vampires and werewolves,” he said in a low voice as he spied a copy of _Hircine and the Wild Hunt_ on a shelf below. “Which is a bit disturbing.”

“Is it really?” she asked and took the book out of his hand. “I mean they are daedric cultists and we’re daedric creatures. Just because you and I have no interest in their crap doesn’t mean others of our kind think like us.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. It seems like an unpleasant coincidence, but I may be somewhat paranoid.”

They moved into the adjoining corridor, and Oliver could sense living beings ahead. He called lightning to his hand, waiting for Rhys to make the first move, and just then a door opened ahead of them.

Nothing happened, at first. Rhys pressed herself against the wall and gestured at him to stand down. He extonguished his spell and moved against the wall beside her, but he couldn’t see what she saw. The stench of death told him something, as did the shudder that passed through Rhys’s body and her whispered refusal. But there was no time to ask or to offer comfort; before he knew it, she had charged through the door, blades flying.

He cursed and followed after. Cultists poured out of doors on the other side of the room, but Rhys was moving so quickly that he was afraid to use too much magic. It was only his supernatural speed that allowed him to dispatch a few enemies with his sword. When he had a moment of breathing space he turned, but what he saw made his heart sink.

Rhys was fighting off two cultists without much difficulty, despite the way every movement was suffused with rage. Her daggers were moving so fast even he could barely perceive them. But another enemy had circled behind, and he could tell that she hadn’t noticed. The cultist’s blade was already raised and ready to strike.

In that moment, hesitation never occurred to him. Oliver jumped forward in a cloud of smoke, pressing against Rhys’s back so that he was in between her and her attacker. They exchanged a brief flurry of blows, and the cultist fell with blood spurting from their throat.

It wasn’t until the fight was over that Oliver felt the pain in his abdomen. He looked down to see a dagger sticking out just below his rib cage. The burning that grew more agonizing by the second and the blood dripping down his side told him that the blade was silver. “How unfortunate,” he muttered before crumpling to the ground.

*********************

The door in the hallway opened by itself and adrenaline rushed through her veins, making her heart race. Quickly, she pressed herself against the wall and drew the shadows closer. The scent of blood, pain, and fear coated her tongue like an oil slick, and she gagged.

There were people in there. She could hear the quiet hissing of breath beyond the doorway. She signaled Oliver to wait. No need to alarm the enemies nearby with his flashy nonsense.

By slowly inching along the wall, Rhys managed to get to the opening without being detected so she could see the room beyond. In the middle was a fireplace, and several cultists were standing around a table in front of it. In the corners hung cages occupied with men and mer of every race. She couldn’t tell if any of them still breathed. The scent of death was so prominent in the room it blurred out anything else.

On the ground were corpses. Just… So many corpses.  She could see some human, bosmer and khajit, even some altmer. They were Dominion soldiers. Her stomach dropped. “What in the name of…” she whispered. 

Then she saw something else. A khajit wearing distinctive altmer armor. She had seen this armor before… worn it herself even. The body leaned against a cage, bloodied and disfigured but still… from here it kind of looked like… 

Ice filled her veins.

“No…”

It couldn’t be. He would never be in a place like this. He’d never… But for Ayren, wouldn't he do anything? The body moved, barely detectable, like it had taken a breath.

All sensible thoughts fled, she charged into the room. With the inhuman speed granted to her by Hircine’s gift, she buried her blades in the face of the first cultist before they could even let out a scream.

Blood drummed in her ears, her vision gone red with rage; she was unaware of time, of pain, of anything but her enemies and the deaths that awaited them. She would rip every single one of them apart. 

The cultists fell in a blurr of blades. She cut the throat of her last adversary with a roar, nearly cleaving his head from his body with a single slice.

Rhys was still panting as she rushed towards the sunken body of the khajit in the cage. With shaking hands she reached out and rolled it over… her breath hitched.

It wasn’t him. Yes, it was one of the Eyes of the Queen, thus the armor, but it wasn’t him.

Her heartbeat slowed, her lungs filling with air as the panic and anger faded. “By the eight,” she whispered in relief. It was then that she noticed the silence of the room around her. She hadn't come alone, and vampires might be quiet, but no one was that quiet.

“Oliver?” she called, her eyes darting around in renewed alarm. He was directly behind her, sprawled on the ground with his long limbs askew. There was blood on the ground. A lot of blood.

“Oliver!!” She gasped and rushed to his side, pulling him up into her lap without thinking. A silver dagger fell out of his hand, clattering to the ground. “What happened?! You're bleeding!” She had killed enough vampires to know that this was not a good sign. 

“You didn’t s-see him,” he grunted. “Had to step in.” Her stomach dropped. This was her fault. He was dying because of her. His eyes were turning black, all pupil. He reached for her, or for something.

“Silver,” he gasped. “Disrupted… regeneration. Need… fresh blood. My coat.”

“Fuck,” she hissed and quickly went through his ridiculously spacious coat. “Don’t die,” she breathed, pressing on the wound with her free hand. “I can’t feed you so you better use your old vampire mojo, I swear.” Why did he had to be so fucking extra?! Considering how skinny he was, the damn coat was built to fit about three of him. God knew what else he was hiding in there! Finally, she found the small flask of blood in the inside breast pocket, along with a ball of string and three pieces of colored chalk.

His eyes were closed now. She popped the cork with a shaking hand and tipped it into his mouth. “What the hell were you thinking?! You don't even know me,” she whispered while her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

He took a great shuddering breath, and she felt like she was the one breathing again as he met her eyes. Already the pupils had contracted enough to show a sliver of red iris. “I do not need to know your life history to know you are worth my time and care,” he replied hoarsely. “Besides, we are together in this fight. It would be irresponsible of me to allow you to be stabbed in the back.” His eyes fluttered closed again. 

She was shaking. His words cut deep, deeper than she wanted. He made her feel vulnerable, soft. A softness she thought she had already burned away years ago, but this man had bled for her. Without hesitation he had taken a blade for her.

Why? What for? It made no sense.“You could have died!” she exclaimed, shaking him by the shoulders without even realizing it. “You have no business taking blades for me! Why?” Once again she had caused a companion pain. It was her fault, her fault!

“I’m not dying, though it was closer than I’d like to come,” he said, pushing himself up to sitting. He pulled open his shirt to look at the wound. It was already scabbed over. It was sort of fascinating to watch how quickly his body healed, but still the fear that someone else had nearly died protecting her clawed at her gut.

“You have no right to put your death on me,” she whispered, and before she could stop herself, she ran a shaking hand through his hair. “if I die due to my own stupidity, I deserve death.”

His eyes met hers again, pinning her in place with an emotion as intense as it was unnameable. “As if I would passively watch you die,” he said roughly. Before she could protest he had looked away. “If everyone who’d ever done a foolish thing was dead, we’d all be in the ground by now.” He looked around, surveying the damage. 

“What made you so intent on murdering everyone in this room? I didn’t expect you to be so incautious,” he asked, his tone one of forced nonchalance. It was a question she expected him to ask, but that didn't make it easier.

“I… that armor. He’s an eye of the queen,” she replied, “One of Ayren’s special guard. I thought... I thought I knew him. I was wrong.” It shook her to the core how the thought of that man… that wicked man… still had so much power over her. How much further did she have to run?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I put you in danger by acting recklessly. I should have known better.”

There was a spot of cold on her cheek. Oliver’s hand caressing her face, comforting her. The expression on his face was uncharacteristically gentle. She flinched back out of habit; it had been so long since anyone had offered her any sort of… affection. “There is no need to apologize. In a few days, there won’t even be a scar to remember the wound by. It could have been much worse. Silver isn’t any kinder to werewolves, after all, and I am no healer. Let us see what useful information we can discover from these bodies, and leave before their friends arrive.”

Rhys knew lust. She was no stranger to desire, and she'd certainly indulged in it often enough. This touch was different, unsettling in a way that shook the foundations of her being. Why?

She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand, her hand closing around his wrist. “Don’t give me this kind of loyalty, Oliver,” she whispered. “Do not forget that I am an assassin under Daedric contract.”

His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “And I am a 300 year old vampire,” he said. “You cannot frighten me away, Rhys. If you wish for me to go, I will, but otherwise, I will be here.”

She didn't know how to respond to his promise. And what a promise it was. He was a frightening man, she thought, somehow traversing her shifting walls with the skill of dedicated thief. 

"I...” She wanted to say something flippant, that she was only tolerating him as far as he was useful, but she could not, for some reason, bring herself to lie. “I can't,” she admitted, her heart squeezing in her chest.

Drawing in a shaky breath, she pulled away. This was no place to have an emotional breakdown. She took Oliver’s hand and helped him to his feet before turning away, bringing more distance between them. Away from the warmth and tenderness that challenged her iron discipline, putting years of training in danger.

“If it troubles you to search the Dominion soldiers, I will do it,” he added. She was already kneeling next to the first corpse, another bosmer. 

“It’s all right…” she replied, not having the words to tell him that she had done it before, many times. That hundreds of these men and women had fallen to her own blades. She couldn't dwell on the thought; letting those memories in was asking to lose what remained of her internal balance.

“They should have little tags around their necks… be sure to collect them,” she added. The least she could do is make sure their families knew.

**********************

Her fingers slipped through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like that, out of affection rather than desire. He felt like he should be making a joke to ease her mind, something about his dustiness perhaps, but he couldn’t. His soul felt like it was shaking loose from its tether. “As if I would passively watch you die,” he said roughly. He would have liked to say that he would have done the same for anyone, but it would have been a lie. The whole truth was something he couldn’t put words to, or even think clearly about. “If everyone who’d ever done a foolish thing was dead, we’d all be in the ground by now,” he said with a chuckle, trying to dispel the unsteady feeling in his chest.

Her explanation was close to what he’d expected, but the emotion behind it was not. Rhys looked absolutely devastated by the admission of her mistake. He couldn’t help but reach out, brushing his hand over her cheek.

She flinched back, but then leaned in, her fingers hot around his wrist. He let his thumb caress her cheekbone once, but did not push further. They seemed to be teetering on the edge of something vast. There were other things he could have said, stronger, wilder, stupider things, but he had to hold onto to some dignity. Besides, he knew she wouldn’t want to hear it, not yet. Maybe not ever, but this was enough for now. The admission that she didn’t want him to go was like stepping into a warm bath. Despite his fatigue and the lingering pain in his side, he felt light, almost giddy with relief. He had to shake himself.

He let her pull him upright and move away, understanding her need to compose herself. Each time she touched him, his desire for more of the same grew stronger, but he was practiced at denying himself what he wanted. Hadn’t he promised her he would be patient?

Sorting through the pockets of the dead at least was a good distraction from those kind of thoughts. There was money, which he did not need, and a few soul gems, plus the small dominion tokens that Rhys had requested he collect. But the interesting thing was the letters. At first glance they seemed utterly banal, notes about settling debts or buying groceries, but each one was just slightly off-putting enough for him to realize that they were more than they seemed. He spread each note out on a nearby table and considered them as a whole. “Does the Dominion ever use a cipher?” he asked, turning back to Rhys.

She looked up with an expression that was still shaken. "Hm..,” she pondered, "Yes they do, but not everyone knows every code. Every squad only has a access to a few keys, and only the leaders of the Eyes know how to connect them. Why? Did you find something interesting?”

“I found several notes, which together I believe point to some kind of code,” he said, gesturing to the table.

She moved over to him, her brow furrowed slightly before breaking into a sudden grin. "Hey Oliver... why are cultists so good at art?" she asked, holding some kind of drawing scribbled on crumpled yellow paper. "Daedra all the time."

It took him several seconds to recognize the joke.

“You…” he said, shaking his head and snatching the paper from her fingers. “Your puns will be the death of me. You can put it on my tombstone. Oliver Thorne, murdered by wordplay.” He spread the drawing out beside the other notes. It was nothing too unusual, a stylized web with an eye in the middle.

Rhys pinched his upper arm, not enough to really hurt. “Funny wordplay, if you please,” she said with mock ferocity. “My wordplay is so good, the Dominion couldn’t bear it and kicked me out.”

“If you say so,” he said with a smirk. Playful was good, he decided. She wasn’t so troubled by the day’s events that she had lost her sense of humor. “Jokes aside, this drawing may end up being the clue we need. This kind of cipher often uses a key phrase as the basis of its substitution. If we can discover what the drawing refers to, we maybe be able to decipher the secret. Unfortunately, I have no idea where we might find another clue at the moment, without venturing farther into the temple, that is, and I’m not particularly fond of the idea.”

She looked over the notes and slowly tilted her head to one side and then the other. “Hmm. I’m not sure. I don’t expect even these cultists are stupid enough to leave cipher keys lying around a place like this, and Dominion agents definitely wouldn't. Maybe the books we found in the library hold some meaning. If all else fails, I have contacts in Clockwork City; maybe Sotha Sil is up to a little puzzle.”

“You’ve been there?” he asked, his eyes lighting up with both delight and a hint of envy. “I’ve always wondered what it was like.” Enchantment and smithing were two of his primary skills, and the idea of an entire realm made of machines had always captured his imagination.

“Yes, briefly,” she said, arching an eyebrow at his reaction. “it’s a giant city hidden in a tiny sphere, which is pretty impressive. I got dragged into a different Daedric plot, this one involving Nocturnal. She tried to take over the city. Ironically, I made a brief contact with Mephala during my stay, so when I say I hate that bitch, you know I have good reason. But the city owes me a favor, so we can head there if we get stuck.” 

“I almost hope we can't figure it out,” he said wistfully. Rhys gathered all the collected tags from the Dominion soldiers into a pouch at her belt, and surveyed the room with a shudder.

“Right now, I just want to get far away from here,” she said. “I need a bath… I need to scrub the stench of spiders and death off my skin.” She looked at him with a thoughtful expression. “Can you walk? I have a safe house not far from here… We can wash up and rest there until sunset.”

He nodded his agreement, sweeping the notes into a pocket of his coat, but the invitation surprised him. Part of him had expected her to want some space. Not that he disliked the idea. He was very tired. “I can walk. Not very quickly but I can.” He looked at her for a long moment before answering. “I would like that, yes.”

*********************

Rhys sighed deeply at his acceptance of her invitation. It was strange how easy it was to let him into her life, even when it felt hard. It was only because it was so close to dawn, she told herself. Oliver was nearly gray with exhaustion from his wound, a wound he had taken for her sake. She wouldn't send him back alone in such a state.

“Right… Then let’s get out of here. I need to burn my gear,” she muttered.

They left the temple without incident, and she led him through the hills, often looking back to make sure he was following close behind. He may be 300 years old and strong, but silver was nothing to joke about.

After a while they reached a hole in the ground that led to another cave beneath the rocks. “Down here,” she said easing herself into the hole. “It’s not as deep as it looks.”

Then she dropped. It was a little less than four meters down, no sweat for a supernatural creature. She landed on her feet and waited for him to follow. The fact that he stumbled and had to catch himself on the wall was a bit concerning. 

She led the way through a tunnel lit by glowing mushrooms in a rainbow of colors, and they soon reached a small secondary cavern that was decorated like a house. There was a bed piled high with pillows and blankets, a table and chairs and a wardrobe, even a fireplace, though there was nothing but embers at the moment.

Without hesitation, Rhys started to unstrap her weapons, placing them on the table with movements so automatic it was almost a ritual. “Welcome, I suppose. This is my little den. I don’t trust the brotherhood enough to use their safe houses so I made my own… Make yourself at home.”

“It is certainly the most comfortable looking cave I’ve ever been in,” Oliver said, slowly divesting himself of his sword and coat, before sitting in the chair beside the table.

“I’m glad you approve,” she chuckled, “I have several of these hideouts. Just ‘cause I need to disappear sometimes doesn’t mean I have to be uncomfortable.” She was so tired, she suspected her ears were drooping. All she wanted, besides a bath, was a meal that smelled nothing like death. Luckily, she always had something squirreled away.

She took out her orb and placed it on the table. With a murmured spell, her gear melted into smoke and shadows before being sucked back into the little ball, leaving her dressed in a thin tunic and soft fabric breeches. She looked back to Oliver and found him watching her with a somewhat dazed expression.

“Are you okay? Do you need help?” she asked in a worried tone, pressing her hand to his forehead. It was cold; she supposed that was normal. “You don’t look so good…”

She couldn't help being concerned. A little research after their first meeting had confirmed her suspicions; he could not drink her blood. In the best case, it would make him ill. In his current state, it could very well do him in. The hills were full of game but she was hesitant about leaving him alone. For a moment she wished things were different, that she could just feed him herself. The mental image did funny things to her insides. She cleared her throat.

“If you can, I suggest getting downstairs to the lake. Once we’re clean, we can sleep and recover.” Injured or not, nobody covered in blood and spider goo was getting in her bed.

He leaned into her touch, eyes closed. “I’m just tired. As you may have experienced, rapid healing of such a serious wound takes quite a bit of energy. But I am not so far gone that I would turn down a bath. Especially if it comes with such an attractive companion,” he added with a quirk of his eyebrows. 

Rhys chuckled softly and flicked his forehead with two fingers. “It seems I was worried for nothing, " she said, pursing her lips. "You can’t be that bad off if you can manage to flirt.”

He rubbed his forehead, but he was smiling. “I’ll need blood tomorrow if I’m going to be at all useful,” he said, bending down to unbuckle and unlace his boots. “But I’m not in any immediate danger.” Once his boots were off, he looked up at her, his expression more open than usual. It was gentle, almost adoring. She looked away as he spoke again. “Lead the way to this bath. I will be glad to wash the blood off.” 

She made her way down a small path leading downward, loosening the buttons on her tunic as she walked. At the bottom, among yet more glowing mushrooms, a waterfall spilled into a small pond, sending up enough steam to make her hair curl.  
“A hot spring feeds the waterfall,” she explained as she heard Oliver’s footsteps approaching. “Even an Altmer bathhouse won’t have better.” 

“No wonder you keep this place a secret,” he replied. She could feel his eyes on her as she began to pull the pins and combs from her fiery hair, letting it fall free onto her shoulders. 

Rhys had never been a prude. Growing up in a community of Bosmer hunters, she had never been made to feel that her body was something to hide or be ashamed of. Clothing was much more important to humans, except for the Nords. Altmer, if anything, were worse, but she had no experience with 300 year old Bretons. For all she knew, he'd spent his youth running through the hills wearing nothing but paint. Though Oliver didn't seem the type.

She hesitated. It wasn't that she minded his obvious interest, she just wasn’t sure if she should encourage it. To give the feelings starting to bubble up inside her a place to grow. There was no denying that this went beyond pure physical attraction. She… liked him. It wasn't too far of a stretch to imagine that he felt the same. 

That was dangerous. The smart thing to do would be to bring distance between them. Keep this whole thing professional, with the occasional harmless flirtation.

She hummed in thought. She could sit upstairs and wait till he was done… But then she got a good whiff of her eau de spider cave. If she didn't wash soon, she was going to make herself puke. She pulled her shirt over her head, slipped out of her breeches, and stepped into the water. There was a familiar moment of discomfort, the stinging as the hot water met the gnarly scar on her hip, the memento of her werewolf bite, but then it was over. 

She let out a blissful sigh, and looked behind her. Oliver was still standing on the shore, his eyes half-lidded, his hands frozen at his collar, like one of those dwemer machines that had short-circuited. She laughed.

“Do you need a special invitation or are you as offended at naked skin as other posh people?”

“Offended is not the word I would use,” he said, his voice a low rasp. His clothes fell to the ground with a rustle of fabric, and though she didn't get more than a glimpse before he came into the water, Rhys liked what she saw. 

He moved toward her carefully, like a wild animal he might startle if he went too quickly. His hand reached out to her hair, letting the crimson strands flow through his fingers. Goosebumps rose on her arms at the sensation. “I think hypnotized would be a more appropriate description.” For a moment, she allowed herself to dwell in the enjoyment of this simple touch.

“Again with the sweet talking,” she whispered, taking his hand in her own. He had long, slender fingers, the tips stained with ink. She fell silent as she traced the lines in his palm. Her mother told her that some people believed the future could be read in these lines. Rhys wasn't sure she wanted to know.

“I am quite talented with my mouth,” he said with a smirk. Her fingers moved down to his wrist where his veins stood out in vivid blue. She was somewhat surprised at how normal he seemed, how real and alive despite his curse. 

“You’re a dangerous man, Oliver,” she said finally, a soft frown forming on her brows. “It leaves me with the question what you truly want from me.”

“I already told you what I wanted. That hasn’t changed,” he said softly, but she could feel him tense, preparing for a blow.

“I can see that you want me. You’re a handsome man, and I wouldn’t mind a little fun, but you won't be content with that, will you?”

She let his hand fall back into the water, drifting away, putting distance between them. “I cannot give you affection, Oliver,” she admitted, her voice suddenly hoarse. “I don’t think I have that in me.”

It was surprisingly heart wrenching to say these words out loud. Almost more painful than the way he recoiled as if he been physically struck. But she knew this was safer. Distance was better. He already had too much power over her; seeing him injured shouldn't cause her pain.

But it did. And so did the flash of hurt in his eyes before it was replaced by fury. “That would please you wouldn’t it? If I just fucked you and left,” he snarled. “It would prove that everything you believe about yourself and the world is true, and you’re better off alone. You’re wrong, about yourself, and about me. If I wanted a quick fuck, I’d go to a brothel.”

“How dare you judge me!” she yelled back. Anger was familiar. She could handle anger. “What makes you think you have any right to my life or my story?! Get angry at me if you wish, apparently you know everything! Excuse me if I don’t faint into your arms like some sort of naive damsel that sees a pretty man for the first time in her life.”

He turned away before she was even finished, sloshing out of the water and muttering under his breath in what she could only assume was his native tongue. “Twmffat! Dwi ddim yn gwybod pam yr wyf yn poeni. Fwcia fy mywyd.” 

After he stormed off she let herself sink below water and scream.

She hated that she already felt bad, that she kept picturing that split second of raw agony in his eyes. She deserved to be angry, instead of already dreading a return to solitude.

It was better this way. Cutting ties before he got too invested in her. Safer. It was safer.

Rhys finished washing up and then went back upstairs, not speaking, not even daring to look at him. His presence at the table was like a cold stone in her throat. She wasn't cruel enough to kick him out of her hideout while the sun was high at the sky, but there was no way she was staying.

Grabbing a set of simple spare gear out of her chest, she got dressed and packed her things. The silence was awful. Her eyes flicked upward without her permission, just to make sure he was still there. All she could see was his bare back hunched over his elbows, his hair dripping on the floor. For some reason it only made her angrier. He had no right to make her feel this way!

“This is where our paths split,” she said, keeping her tone business-like. “You can stay here till sundown. I’d appreciate if you left this place as you found it.”

He didn't reply, and she didn't wait. She was out of the cave and into the hills, running as fast as she could go.

**************

He did not stay in the cave. He couldn’t. Everything smelled like Rhys, and he felt hollow and empty. Once he was sure she was gone, he ventured out into the main cave and ate two skeevers. It was enough blood to allow him to work magic, so he cast a teleport back to the Mages’ Guild and fell into bed insensible for three days.

When he woke up, he was physically back to normal, but his emotions were a storm with no outlet. There were about a hundred ways he could have handled that better, but now it was too late. 

Obviously, he couldn’t stay here; the temptation to seek her out would be too great, but he knew there would be no point. She didn’t want him, and certainly now she never would. Whatever was going on with Mephala, he would have to unravel it on his own. But there was one more thing he had to do.

He sent a letter via courier, though he wasn’t confident she would receive it.

_I apologize for losing my temper. Rest assured that I have left Kvatch, and have no intention of bothering you further._  
_Oliver Davies-Thorne_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I know what happens, this hurt me to compile.


	4. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver flees to Morrowimd, intending to do reasearch in the Library of Vivec. Unfortunately, Rhys has the same idea. Of course they have an argument, but is that really the end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW. Also a very long one. Enjoy!

Rhys received the letter four days after their trip to Mephala’s temple, and it made her so angry that she threw it into the sea. How dare he judge her and then run away himself, the coward. His scent lingered in the city when she went to the tavern the next day, pulling at her. _Maybe he hasn't left yet,_ said a traitorous voice in her thoughts. _There might be a chance to make things right, or to find out where he went._ She ignored this impulse, too filled with rage to even entertain the possibility, but in the depths of the night, her heart ached with loneliness.

But that only made her more furious. The last thing she needed was a dusty old bloodsucker hanging around, giving her… _feelings._ And she certainly didn't need his help to figure out what was going on with Mephala. She was fine alone, just as she had always been, and would be until the day she dropped dead. She started making arrangements. 

Weeks later a ship docked in Vivec City, and Rhys stepped off the gangplank. It had been years since she had set foot in Morrowind, but she still had a few contacts. Before she'd taken more than three steps on land, she was greeted by a familiar voice.

“Naryu,” Rhys said with a smile, catching the dunmer in a fierce hug.

“Ew, since when are you so huggy?” Naryu complained with a laugh, but she hugged back anyway. “I was surprised by your letter. Sounds like you really are in a pinch.”

“Nothing I found even hints at a code, but the letters don't make sense otherwise. I was hoping I could find something in Vivec’s library, but you can't exactly walk in off the street. I need someone with contacts to help me get inside.”

Naryu chuckled. “Here I thought you missed me. I should have known you only wanted to use me.” Rhys rolled her eyes at the long-running joke, and gestured at the large building that could be seen towering over the others.

“Now, Naryu. Please,” she added. “We can chat when we're inside.”

“Alright, alright,” Naryu said, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender. “You're no fun.”

A few introductions and bribes later, and they entered the library side by side. Rhys sighed as she looked at the dim dust- scented shelves rising several floors above her head. This would be exactly the kind of place Oliver would love. She knew he was nuts for old books. Probably because they were as dusty as him.

They went up the stairs, and as they passed a high row of shelves Rhys smelled something she definitely hadn't expected. Was she imginating things?  Naryu was standing next to her speaking, but Rhys couldn’t hear it. All of her senses were focused on the cold aroma of vampire that was growing stronger by the second, curling around her the way only his scent did. It was fresh.

She was following the trail before she even realized she was moving, and he wasn't hard to find. Rhys rounded a corner and found Oliver sitting stiffly at a table, hiding behind the largest book she’d ever seen. 

She debated ripping it out of his hands and hitting him over the head with it. Several times.

“Careful, you might break the book with your ‘temper’, Mr. Vampire,” she said icily. “No need to hide, not even that book can cover up your stench.”

**********************  
It was during his third week in Vvardenfell, while he was taking notes in the Daedric section of the Library of Vivec, when everything fell apart. He smelled the now familiar aroma of werewolf. For a moment, he thought he was going mad, considering how often she’d been a subject of his dreams. But the scent kept getting stronger. 

If she found him, she would be furious; she would probably think he was following her, though he would've sooner buried himself in sanctified ground than face her again. But of course, he couldn’t just leave. There was only one staircase, and a show of vampire powers would not be welcomed in the library. Not being a dunmer, he was already here on sufferance.

In a blind panic, he hid behind a rather large book and hoped she’d be so busy on her own business that she would pass him by. Already he was cursing himself for not following his first instinct and going to Artaeum instead.

He knew that his half-hearted attempt at hiding had failed when he heard footsteps approaching. Angry footsteps, if he was any judge. He steeled himself for the agony that was sure to follow.

“Careful, you might break the book with your ‘temper’, Mr. Vampire,” she said in a voice colder than Oblivion. “No need to hide, not even that book can cover up your stench.”

Hearing her was like rubbing salt in a wound. He lowered the book, holding it between them like a shield with a white-knuckle grip, his eyes anywhere but her face. The ceiling was safe to look at, and he regarded the stonework above as if the secrets of the universe were held there.

She had received his letter at least, but if anything, it had disimproved her opinion of him. In the midst of the howling void of his loneliness and regret there was a flare of anger as well. If she hated him so much, why wouldn’t she let him be?

He kept his tone cool and professsional as he replied. “I apologize for disturbing you with my presence. I certainly did not intend to be anywhere near you, and so if you will permit me, I will now depart.” He wondered where the farthest Mage Guild teleport would take him. Elsweyr? Skyrim? Somehow he felt that not even the moon would be far enough.

“Yes, run along. Maybe you can find some more things to hide behind,” she replied, her tone now venomously sweet. “Just make sure it’s big enough to hide your ego. Maybe a mountain or two will suffice. I heard the inside of Red Mountain is beautiful at this time of year.”

Her cruel words pricked at his heart, so much so that he was forced to meet her gaze. It felt like a blow. “I am only doing what I believe you would prefer,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. “Neither of us want what the other is willing to give. There is no point in forcing my company upon you. I am not that much of a masochist.”

“Ah yes, because you know so well what I want, right? After all with your wisdom of 300 years, you must know how I see myself and the world better than even I do,” she scoffed, “How practical!”

 "Now, I’m by no means an expert in relationships, but I am sensing a little tension here?” It was only when she spoke that Oliver notice the female dunmer standing beside Rhys, but her question made him nearly bite his tongue in order to keep from making an unwise remark. 

“Naryu,” Rhys growled, her expression even more murderous than before, which was an achievement.

Naryu’s eyebrows flicked upward with something like glee. “Ah, I see. Ex-lover?”

“As if,” Rhys snapped. It would have been easier, he thought, if they had been lovers. Then the amount of agony this situation was causing would actually feel warranted. No, this was just him being an idiot clearly. Rhys did not appear to feel anything for him but distaste, as he no doubt deserved.

“So… yes,” the dark elf concluded with a smirk.

He scowled. “No, indeed, as you can see, she has no interest in any sort of relationship with me and therefore, I will bid you good evening.” He gathered his pile of papers under his arm, and turned away, wanting to be out of this situation and possibly out of the country as quickly as possible.

However, Rhys had no intention of letting him leave, it seemed. She growled something under her breath, and quite suddenly she had grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, slapping him so hard across the face that the sound echoed through the library like a cannon blast. It hurt, but it was more surprising than painful. He raised his hand to his cheek almost mechanically as she started unleashing her fury,

“You ignorant, overbearing, arrogant, cowardly, piece of rotting garbage,” she hissed. “How dare you, how dare you play the victim now! Look at you with those hurt puppy dog eyes. I ought to rip them out of your skull! Oh, poor you, so old, so tired! The little bosmer doesn’t go the way you want in a matter of days, must be because of self-hate and a wrong view of the world. What a bitch, right?”

Her voice was only getting louder, and he couldn't make himself speak. People were starting to stare. She had his jacket gripped in her fist, and was hitting his chest with every other word. He could have escaped, but it never occurred to him. He felt rooted to the spot.

“How dare you judge me, and make decisions for me! You know nothing of me, or my life! You don’t know shit about what I’ve done, what I’ve been through, and you have no right to it either!” Part of him was astounded she hadn't gone hoarse. Her eyes were positively glowing with rage. He wasn't afraid, exactly, but he was certainly uncomfortable, and more than that, emotionally he felt like he was being repeatedly stabbed, but she wasn't through. 

“Oh, but Lord Oliver Davies-Thorne has caught interest or feelings or whatever the fuck you got, so the bitch better jump to the whistle right?  Chop chop! And you push and push and push with no respect for boundaries or my feelings! Because you’re a greedy, selfish bastard!” She panted out a breath, her muscles trembling. “In time, I might have come around. But no! Oliver wants it now! I wasn’t fast enough for your tastes so what do you do?! Run off and play the poor kicked dog!” She hit him so hard in the chest he thought if he'd been mortal, she would have stopped his heart. 

Naryu wrapped her arms around Rhys, pulling her backwards and away from him. He might have told her not to bother, but he supposed he didn't want to be kicked out of the library. Not that it seemed like an urgent concern compared to what was happening now. He finally managed to summon a reply, though his voice was barely about a whisper.

“You are right. Clearly I have no idea what you want. I don’t know what you expect me say. That I missed you, that I dreamed of you? That the only thing I regret more than what I said to you was that I did not in fact die in that godsforsaken temple so that your last memory of me would not be of me making an ass of myself.” His voice cracked and he hated that it did. He looked down at his hands, lacing the fingers.

Rhys’s eyes were filled with furious tears. “Yes. Because you dying because of me would make everything better. What a great memory for me! If you want to die so bad, just say the word. I’ll have you in the river in no time you donkey’s ass! I asked you for time and I asked you for patience. I told you this was hard didn’t I?” she added in a whisper. “You didn’t listen. You don’t even listen now.” That particular accusation hurt, as if he hadn't stored up every word she'd ever spoken like the coins in a dragon’s hoard. But he couldn’t muster up the energy to be angry, answering in a hollow tone.

“You said we were finished and I took you at your word. I did not want to face your hatred. If that makes me a coward, so be it. I know nothing about you because as you have said more than once, you do not think I deserve to know. But you know nothing about me either. I am sorry if I have pressured you. All I wanted was for you to believe that I cared for you, and when you refused me again, I lashed out because I was frustrated and tired. It seemed clear to me that we would only continue to hurt each other. So I left.” He sighed out a breath, feeling like a deflated waterskin, but Rhys lunged toward him again, as if the very existence of his emotions was enraging.

“Have you no backbone? Look at you melting into self pity! I didn’t say you were undeserving. I said you’re not entitled to it! Instead of realising how hard it was for me to open up and being grateful for the things I was able to give you so early on, you got greedy and angry when I couldn’t give more. How is that okay? How does that justify this?!” she said, gesturing toward him. He didn't know what she wanted. Any rage he might have summoned had been spent in those few moments in the cave, and it was an experience he had no interest in repeating.

“I am doing my best, Rhys,” he replied, almost desperately. “I could not be more sorry for the things I said. But I am not made of stone. I was tired and I wanted your comfort. Am I not also allowed to be angry and hurt or is that a privilege only belonging to you? Are my emotions pathetic because I do not scream them at the top of my lungs? You want me to listen, but you tell me this is where our paths split and then are angry when I respect your wishes. You threaten to kill me on a near daily basis, and yet my wishing I might have died rather than hurt you disturbs you. Sometimes I think we aren’t even speaking the same language. It seems like everything I say and do, even what I feel, is distasteful to you.”

Rhys’s pushed away from Naryu as if she couldn't bear the touch.“It’s not distasteful, it’s complicated! It’s hard, it’s terrifying!!”

“I have spent the last two hundred years seducing people to feed off them, leaving as no more than a vague memory of pleasure. I thought… never mind what I thought. I am never going to stop caring for you, but I’m not sure we are ever going to understand each other. You have my full attention, as you always have had, if there is something more you want to tell me or ask me, or I don’t even know. But if not, I will return to the Mages’ Guild. I suppose I will be there for a few more days, and then I will move on. If you want my notes on this code, I will leave copies for you there. I don’t know what else I can do.” He was so weary and raw that he felt like weeping, and Rhys still seemed more angry than anything. He might as well have bared his soul to a brick wall. 

As if in answer to his thoughts, Rhys threw up her hands and yelled “Go sit in your own piss!” before storming down the stairs, and judging by the slamming door, right into the street. Naryu watched her go with a look that was almost awestruck.

“You know, I’ve never seen her that agitated,” she said, before turning and following. He didn’t know what to make of the remark, considering his own agitation. So he gathered up his things with shaking hands and went back to the Mages’ Guild.

********************

By the time Naryu caught up to her in their favorite tavern, Rhys was already three drinks in. Not that it meant much, for her; she barely felt buzzed when her friend slid onto the stool next to her.

“So,” Naryu said with false brightness. “Who was that guy?”

Rhys wrinkled her nose and slapped more coins on the bar. “Nobody.”

Naryu laughed. “You got awfully angry over a nobody. That’s a terrible lie, even for you.”

Rhys sighed, dropping her empty mug and running a hand through her hair. “He's just a stupid bloodsucker I met on a job. I don't want anything to do with him.”

“Really?” Naryu said, nudging her with an elbow. “Why were you so angry at him for leaving, then?”

“Shut up,” Rhys growled, but she didn’t have much anger left in her. Her glass was full again, and she swallowed in three gulps without tasting it.

“He was pretty good-looking, for a human,” Naryu said, making a face. “Ridiculous outfit, though.”

“I know, right? He dresses like he's attending a funeral in an old Imperial painting or something,” Rhys replied, snorting, but then she was hit by such a crushing feeling of loss that she nearly choked. She laid her head on the bar, holding her cup up for the bartender. “Everything's a fucking mess.”

“I can't say I understand what's going on, but he does seem to care about you, and if you want to talk to him, you know where he’ll be. Do try not to throw him out a window or anything too public though. It would make me look bad.”

Rhys sighed and downed another glass. That was part of the problem. She believed Oliver when he said he cared about her, that he always would. But he couldn't control everything. How many times had she allowed herself to care about someone, only to have them disappear from her life, taken from her through no fault of their own? Taken because the Daedra saw the people of Nirn as no more than puppets or playthings. No matter how powerful he was, how strong, how devoted, there was nothing he could do to prevent it all from crashing down.

When she had first thought that she wanted to see behind his facade, she had expected someone like herself, fierce and wild, maybe a little angry. Now, having cracked him open like an egg, she had found something quite different. She wanted to be disgusted by how soft he was, by how deep he felt. Someone his age should be tougher than that, surely. But even hours more of drinking couldn't drown how much she missed him. 

It was nearly morning when she and Naryu parted. The alcohol was filling her with warmth, but not the warmth she wanted. It wasn’t even just his touch that she longed for. She missed his humor too, the way he challenged her. His wit. His smile. His love of books and awful fashion sense. When he said before that he missed her, even through her rage she had felt her heart ache in response. 

“Gods damn him,” she groaned, leaning against a wall, briefly. Why, of all people, was it this stupid fucking vampire who wouldn't leave her thoughts? Before she could stop herself, she was already on her way.

She knew where the Mages’ Guild was, and there was only one window with a light on. She didn't even need the scent of undeath wafting through the air to guess it was his. It wasn’t hard for her to sneak in. No one saw her leap over the sill and into the room. 

Oliver was at his desk, a huge book open in front of him and notes scattered everywhere, but he wasn't reading. It looked like he was sleeping using the book for a pillow, which was less surprising than it should have been. He obviously didn’t expect her.

She moved forward, purposefully making some noise, and he started upright, spinning around with an expression like he'd been hit with a club.

“You listen to me,” she said, the alcohol and blood thudding in her ears, “I’ve been fine alone. And then you had to come along and just mess everything up! Do you know how much you fucked up?! I’ve never been lonely! And now I can’t stand the silence around me! I hate you!”

She was shaking but sound judgement was long out the window. In a few steps, she closed the distance between them and grabbed him by the collar, pressing her lips against his in a desperate kiss. 

Who knew what she would have done if he pushed her away, but there was no reason to worry. His response was just as urgent and hungry. He pulled her up into his lap, enfolding her in his arms, and she felt like a bird must feel the first time they leap off a branch and the wind catches in their wings. When they finally broke apart, she was panting for breath, and she knew the lightness in her head was not from the booze.

Oliver still looked at her like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. She supposed she couldn't fault his confusion in this case. He breathed in sharply with his nose. “You’re drunk,” he said, his voice hoarse with what she suspected was a combination of emotion and fatigue.

“As much as someone like me could possibly be,” she said with a breathless chuckle, pressing her forehead to his much cooler one. “Do you know that I can drink 3 barrels of ale without passing out and sober up in 2 or 3 hours? Werewolf metabolism. I drank less than a fourth of that. So I’m just buzzing slightly. I have tested that, before you ask. You're smelling the drink Naryu spilled on me.” Naryu was a good drinking partner, but there was not a drop of supernatural blood in her veins. 

“In that case, I am less concerned that I will become something you’ll regret in the morning. More than usual, I mean,” he said with a half-smile. 

Rhys frowned. They really did suck at communicating. “I never regretted you, really. I just… I was angry at myself, for letting you break all my rules.” She nestled against him, letting her eyes fall closed for a moment, soaking in the strange sensation of security and relief. She wondered if he could feel her heart beating against his chest. Even now, she was shaking.

“I had no idea you were so strict with yourself,” he replied. She had a feeling he had meant it as a joke, but his tone was soft. His fingers moved through her hair, and she could feel something inside her starting to unknot. “I do wish I had been there to witness your experiments in drunkenness,” he added with a huff of laughter.

“You’d be surprised how many proposals a woman can get when she drinks ten grown nordic men under the table and can still walk,” she said, chuckling at the fond memory. She’d enjoyed her time among the Nords, even if it had ended badly. 

He laughed. “I can well imagine them falling all over themselves to get your attention.”

Rhys looked up at him intently now, her hand moving almost automatically to brush his hair back from his face, before going to the nape of his neck, burying her fingers in his dark curls. She couldn't remember ever having impulses like these before, strange and warm and scary, but not frightening enough to keep her from daring to kiss him again, this time slower, almost shyly. 

“I… I couldn’t stand the silence after you were gone,” she admitted quietly. “I couldn’t stand the dim-witted conversations in the sanctuary either.”

“The Mages’ Guild isn’t any better,” he said. “Most of them are stodgier than me, if you’ll believe it, and they don’t have any appreciation for a good argument. Flirting is right out.” He kept his tone light and playful now, putting her at ease, she thought. But she wanted, at least in this moment, to speak to him seriously. Why was it so hard to find the words that actually captured what she was trying to convey? Her hands clenched in the fabric of shirt.

“I really was trying to do better. I…,” she whispered, and again her eyes were stinging dangerously. “For thirteen years, I started over and lost everything, started over and lost everything; again and again and again to a point where I had to stop… or die. But I couldn’t die… I don’t know what to tell you… how to tell you… I’m sorry, Oliver.” She knew he had no way of understanding what she meant, but it was all she could offer at the moment. She wasn't ready to revisit those memories.

“I am sorry, as well, truly. You don’t known how many hours I have spent replaying those moments in my head, thinking of all the things I ought to have said. You would think I would be better at patience, after three hundred years, but when I am with you, I become strangely impulsive and stupid. I cannot know what you have been through, although I hope someday you will tell me. I want you to be a part of my life, and to be a part of yours, as much as you can bear to have me.” He kissed her again, sweet and slow, cradling her face in his hands. The tenderness and promise is this kiss was so genuine it almost broke her heart all over again. How many such promises had she gotten? Too many. All broken to dust, with no malice or fault on the part of the giver, all victims of fate as much as her.

“Please don’t say such things,” she whispered against his lips, a deep hurt and sadness darkening her eyes. “I know you mean it, but there are things you can’t control. And nothing hurts worse than a broken vow…”

He met her gaze with calm sincerity. “That was more of an offer than a promise. I place all that I have, freely, into your hands, to do with as you will. Admittedly it isn’t very much, as far as lives go. I stand by what I have already said, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I will keep my promises until you are ready to hear them. Someday, perhaps, I will understand better what frightens you.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “But not today.”

His words were warm yet her chest tightened, the shards of ice guarding her heart still intact for now. Rhys couldn't believe that the fear inside her would ever disappear, but neither could she stand to ignore her feelings for him any longer. It was a fight against herself that she couldn't win.

“The sun is about to rise. Will you stay?” he asked, stroking his fingers lightly over her neck.

She pondered for a moment. A few days earlier she might have declined. Might have run. But now… Even without knowing how long this thing between them could last, she decided she was done running.

A small smile played at the corners of her mouth as she leaned into his touch. “I’ll stay,” she whispered.

*******************

Oliver could almost see her fears and doubts pass behind her eyes. Would she flee from him again? If that happened, as much as it would hurt, he swore he would let her go without a fight. But then she smiled. Just two words were enough to flood his body with relief, releasing tension in his muscles that he hadn’t noticed until that moment.

He kissed her again, more fiercely, sliding his hands down her back. “You aren’t exactly dressed for the occasion, are you?” he remarked, his eyes alight with both humor and desire. “Would you prefer to remove your armor with magic or allow me to do it for you?”

She laughed, a real laugh for the first time in his presence, free and open, a sound which did things even to his immortal heart. “As convenient as it would be to use my sphere, this is not shrouded armor. I burned my last set, and the brotherhood wasn’t exactly happy about it. I have yet to receive my replacement,” she said with a smile, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair again. “So go nuts, I suppose.”

He loved the feeling of her hands in his hair. It was not only a pleasurable sensation on its own, but it seemed to attune all his senses to her, his skin buzzing with some sort of static potential. She stood and removed her weapons, pulling the pins from her hair, and he moved behind her, stooping to bury his nose in her scarlet locks while he started to loosen the laces of her cuirass. She leaned into him, sighing, and he could almost see the tension flow out of her posture.

She drew in a deep breath, as if whatever she might say next was difficult. “Oliver… I know for you, drinking must be a big part of sex,” she said, her hand going to her throat, “I’m afraid that won’t work with me. My blood will make you sick. Is that… okay?”

He paused at her words. “It is more of a habit than a necessity, and your scent does not arouse my biting instincts the way a normal mortal would. Which is not a bad thing,” he added. In a way, that was part of her attraction for him. He could not bite her and so was free to love her just as she was, rather than being worried about hurting her accidentally.

“But thank you, for thinking of me. If I was thirsty, I would drink a blood potion first, just to prevent accidents, but as it happens I drank some earlier. Blood is the easiest way to soothe a vampire’s bad temper, I’m afraid,” he added with a wry smile. With the laces undone, he pushed the leather over her shoulders and to the ground, sliding his hands over her stomach. She shivered. “There is no need to apologize for being what you are, Rhys,” be said against her hair.

She turned to face him, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him close. Her kiss was deep, full of an emotion he couldn't have put a name to if he'd had an eternity to ponder it. “Thank you,” she murmured against his lips. It seemed strange to him that it was a thing he should be thanked for. 

“I find you both fascinating and desirable, and I have no objection to saying so, as often as you wish to hear it.”

“I’ve thought about it,” she admitted quietly, “How it would feel. Being bitten… transforming. I wonder if it is similar to when I turned. When I remember that night it’s almost like watching it happen to someone else.”

“I do not remember being turned, except that it was painful,” he said with a shudder. “Biting is not strictly required, even for that. Blood can be drained manually. The important part is that the prospective vampire drinks the blood of a mature vampire, the older the better. It is not something I would wish upon anyone, although I suppose if you would prefer blood-drinking to lycanthropy, it is something you could consider.”

He had never offered to share his immortality with anyone, even so indirectly. Those who had asked were instantly rejected; people who wanted vampirism were usually those who definitely should not have it. A small part of him was surprised by his own words, but he would not take it back. Frankly, he doubted she would even be tempted by such a thing.

She hummed in thought before answering. “No, I love the sun too much. And food. Especially food,” she said, grinning. “What do I remember? I remember the bite. The fangs ripping into me and the calls of my companions. I was soulless and used to pain so I kept fighting. We killed all of them, but for me it was already too late. The transformation came that night, and they had to put me in chains so I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“I miss food,” he agreed wistfully. “I am glad you had someone to watch over you in the beginning.” He wondered if that would have helped, if there had been anyone who understood what had happened to him at the first. Would his family have been saved?

He shook away the memory; there was no use dwelling on the past, especially when he had something else so pleasant to distract him. His hands slipped under the hem of her shirt to feel her warm, smooth skin. He had wanted to touch her like this for so long, and he traced his fingers up her ribs and over her stomach, listening to her breath and heartbeat, discovering what she liked as he moved upward toward her breasts.

Rhys leaped into his arms, and only his enhanced reflexes kept him from falling over at the sudden impact. “You’re too tall,” she pouted. “I can’t reach you.”

He laughed, bracing her slight weight with his hands. “I am too tall? Maybe it is you who are too short. I rather enjoy being tall. I can reach all the highest bookshelves.”

Rhys’s pouting intensified and she leaned in, nibbling on his lower lip. “I’m not short,” she complained, “I’m fun sized!”

The light scrape of her teeth against his lip was enough to make him draw in a sharp breath. His fingers tightened briefly against her. “I never said you weren’t fun,” he replied with a smirk. There was something to be said for this new closeness, for the sensation of being pressed chest to chest as he kissed her, so he could feel her warmth and racing heartbeat. But it had somewhat interrupted his efforts at undressing her. He carried her to the bed, setting her down on the edge of it so that when he knelt between her legs their faces were once again nearly level. 

Then he drew her shirt over her head and cast it aside, kissing the hollow at the base of her throat and gliding his fingers up along her spine. She trembled and sighed when his lips met her throat, and he couldn't help feeling pleased with his discovery. He grinned.

“You should tell me,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “how it is you like to be touched.”

“Ah… So many sexual promises you’ve given me, my dear. And now you want me to tell you how to do it?” She let out a breathless laugh, her eyes alight with mischief. “Don’t tell me that was all talk?”

“Sometimes I think you enjoy being frustrating,” he said playfully. “I’m not aware that I promised you anything specific, but even so, I’m sure I am equal to it.”

She chuckled and squirming under his touch. “Of course I do. What would be the fun in giving you all the answers? I like to keep you interested,” she teased, “and you love mysteries.”

“I think there’s little chance of you becoming boring,” he murmured, half-entranced by the sight of her. He unfastened her breast band next, and massaged her bared breasts with his palms. “If you won’t tell me what you like, I will just have to discover it for myself. What about this, for example?” he murmured, circling a nipple with his thumb before squeezing it delicately between his fingers. His other hand slipped up the side of her neck, and he traced the edge of her ear with his fingertip. “Or this.”

She arched into his touch, gasping at his gentle pinch. Her heartbeat quickened, and the knowledge made his blood heat. Then her hands were under his shirt, spots of delicious heat and sensation moving over his stomach and ribs. He wanted more of that as soon as possible, so he helped her pull his shirt off without bothering to unbutton it, tossing it somewhere. It didn’t matter.

“It’s a start,” she purred, inching her leg higher over his hip, and it was like throwing alcohol on a fire. He pressed their bodies together urgently, his mouth moving back to her throat, kissing with an open mouth and sucking on the slightly salty skin while his fingers slid back into her hair, tugging gently.

She moaned, tipping her head back to expose more of her neck. The sound sent a hot surge of need down his spine. He let out a low chuckle, but then his elbow collided with the metal plating on her thigh. That wouldn’t do. “I believe we are still wearing too many clothes,” he said, pulling her boots off and starting on the buckles of her leg armor.

“Off with it,” she whispered into his ear before biting his earlobe teasingly, and something like a groaning growl emerged from his throat. His fingers felt too slow and stupid on the fastenings of her armor, digging into her thighs as she left teasing bites all of his chest and neck. He reminded himself rather forcefully that Rhys would probably not like him to rip her clothes off.

Finally, the armor was discarded and he unlaced her pants too, sliding them over her hips and to the ground. This, he remembered dimly, he wanted to savor. He pressed his face between her legs, breathing the musky-sweet fragrance, and he kissed the insides of her thighs, grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth. In the past, he might have extended this teasing, but in truth, he didn’t want to wait. He took off her underwear too, letting them fall to the floor. “You are exquisite,” he murmured, running his cold fingers down the insides of her thighs.

She writhed under his touch, gasping and trying to pull him closer. “Oliver,” she breathed in a husky voice, her fingers finding his hair and tugging at it. “Don’t tease me. I want you.”

The sounds of his name on her lips sent a shudder through him, half primal desire and half some kind of wild elation. “Yes,” he said simply, breathlessly. There would be time later, he promised himself, to go slow, to explore. He discarded the rest of his clothes and bent down, pulling her halfway up to meet him in a searing kiss, sucking her lower lip between his teeth. Then he leaned back into the bed, pulling her by the hand. “Come here and get what you want.”

Her body slid over his like the heat of a bonfire, a burn that he relished with shuddering pleasure. Gasps escaped his mouth as she marked him with her teeth, and his hands wandered over her, trailing through her hair and down her spine.

The sight of her rising up over him, candlelight flickering over her skin, was almost as thrilling as the feeling of her sitting astride his hips, her tantalizing heat so close to where he wanted it. She didn’t make him wait. He groaned as her slick warmth surrounded him, and he took a deep breath to master himself. Even as much as his body burned with desire, he was determined to make this last, to give as much pleasure as he received.

“Fy merch wyllt hyfryd,” he murmured, lapsing into his native tongue in the intensity of the moment. His fingers caressed down her breasts and stomach before settling at her waist. Slowly, he rolled his hips, delighting in every sensation.

*********************

He was mesmerising. His white skin almost glowed in the half-light, contrasting pleasingly with the bronze of her hands as they slid over his shoulders. He was thin, but she could feel his strength every time he moved. When he looked up at her from between her legs, his crimson eyes glittering, her breath caught in her throat. His kiss was like a storm that set her aflame.

She didn’t need to hear his invitation twice. Laughing, she pushed him onto his back and stretched out on top of him. He was cool against her almost feverish skin, like flawless marble yet so soft and delicious to bite and touch. She trailed nipping kisses down his neck and chest, pleased by the gasps and groans she received in return.

A thrilling sensation of possessiveness seized her. He was hers. At this moment, he was hers, and nothing could drag him away from her. Not time, not fate. Certainly not the damned Daedra. This was hers, and his alone.

She sat up, straddling his waist, a lascivious smirk curving her flushed lips as she slowly lowered herself onto him, taking all of him.

“F-fuck.” Her head fell back and she couldn’t hold the groan that escaped her throat. He was hard and thick inside her and also… cool. She didn't know why it surprised her; his skin was always cold to the touch. But now, it made her acutely aware of the way he filled her.

He murmured something in his silly, beautiful language and Rhys grinned down as him. “You’re cursing again?” she asked with a quirk of her brow. “We haven't even really started.” 

Oliver chuckled, his breath stuttering. “You should talk. You have a mouth like a dockworker.” The roll of his hips created such a blissful sensation that she couldn't have stopped her body grinding against him if she’d wanted to. She wanted more touch, more friction. “I wasn’t cursing. I was paying you a compliment,” he panted. At the moment, she didn't care if he was proposing marriage.

Supporting herself with her hands on his chest, she slowly raised her hips and sunk down on him again, groaning. This was exactly what she wanted. What she needed. There was no space in her thoughts for leisure or subtlety. She wanted to ride him until she forgot her own name.

She quickened her pace, moving against him in a sure rhythm, and he matched her, groaning when her nails pressed into his skin. “Gods yes,” he growled out. He slid his hands up to her breasts, kneading them before squeezing her nipples again, a jolt of heat straight to her center.

Rhys couldn’t speak. Every thrust set her nerves aflame, the pleasure making her dizzy in a way she hadn’t felt in ages. His hands were digging into her hips, and she moved faster and harder, rewarding him with moans and whimpers. She felt it in the bottom of her abdomen. The almost unbareable tension that was a sweet promise of release. Cursing she ground down on him, taking as much as she could of him before her vision blurred.

She came apart with a cry, her whole body shaking as her climax shook her small frame, taking her breath away. He thrusted wildly into her once more, and a stream of unintelligible words burst from his mouth as he spent himself inside her. 

She collapsed onto his chest, gasping for air, her heartbeat drumming against her ribs. His arms came around her, and he stroked her hair, kissing her sweat-drenched brow. 

Rhys couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so completely relaxed and sated. Her heartbeat began to slow, and she stifled a yawn before stretching like a big cat (how ironic for a werewolf). She settled against his side, one leg thrown over his hip almost possessively. She had a strange feeling that she didn't want this moment to end, not something she'd thought before. Usually she was in a hurry to leave.

“Well,” she hummed, “We should’ve done that a whole lot fucking sooner.” Though already the traitorous voice in the back of her mind questioned what would happen now? Now that they had reached the peak, would he tire of her, or she of him?

He laughed low in his throat and rolled to face her. “I agree. I enjoyed it so much, I’d like to do it several more times,” he said, trailing his fingers over the curve of her hip. 

“Ahh men,” she said, laughing and shaking her head. She pressed a kiss to his chest. His gentle caress made her shudder, but it was not out of dislike. In fact, as hard as it was for her to even think the word, she could admit to herself that she loved it, the feeling of his hands on her, the way that he explored her like an uncharted territory.

“Only I believe we are both tired just now. I intend to get up only to make sure the curtains are closed, and then come back to bed. I would like it if you stayed,” he said, kissing her shoulder and rising from the bed.

A part of her already missed him beside her, but he had left her with a choice. She was sure, in fact, that he had done so deliberately, being true to his word that he would accept whatever she would give. 

She could run. She could leave now and call it a day, keep him at distance. Fear was slipping into her mind like poison. She had already given him so much of her. She rolled onto her back, covering her eyes with her arm. Something inside her told her that if she didn't leave now, she wouldn't be able to later.

“Stop,” Rhys whispered to herself. “Please… let me enjoy this…” The knot in her throat made it difficult to breathe. She sat up, wiping her face with her palm. Oliver moved around the room with his back to her, drawing the curtains and blowing out the extra candles. It wouldn’t take long for her to get dressed and get out. She had done it countless times…

But for the first time, she didn't want to. As hard as it was, as much as it made her heart thud with fear, she wanted to wake up next to him, to see what a new day would bring. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed Oliver’s shirt and slipped it over her head before crawling back onto the bed. She wouldn’t run today.

His soft footsteps approached the bed. “I brought a towel, if you need it,” he said quietly, reaching out to run his fingers through her hair before lying down next to her. 

“Nah, I used your shirt,” she with a smirk, rubbing one sleeve against her nose. By tomorrow, his cold, earthy scent would mingle so much with hers that they would be almost indistinguishable. It didn't bother her as much as she thought it would.

He snorted. “I suppose I will need a clean shirt,” he said, yawning. He pressed his cool skin against her back, one arm pulling her tight against him. “Thank you, for coming here. For staying,” he murmured into her hair. Her heart ached at these simple words. An intense emotion welled up within her, stealing her breath, and she didn’t know what to say. The affection in his voice was almost too much to process. 

She bit him. In retrospect, it didn't seem like the best way to handle her feelings, but she hadn't broken the skin, only leaving a deep impression of her teeth at the base of his thumb. He made a soft sound of surprise, and she kissed the mark to take away the sting of it.

“You should absolutely not do that again if you want to get any sleep,” he murmured against the back of her neck. That made her laugh, and she might've explored this interesting development further. But she was tired. He snuffed out the last candle and pulled the blankets over them. It didn't take long for her to drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we’ve nearly caught up on the RP so it anyone is actually reading this for fun, obviously updates will be slower from here on out.


	5. Choices and Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, they decide what to do next and have fun in the bath. Also NSFW.

When Oliver woke, the smells coming from the kitchen combined with the sounds from the rooms around and below him revealed that it was late afternoon. His muscles were both loose and slightly sore, and the air had a peculiar musky scent. He drew in a sharp breath and opened his eyes.

There she was, still curled up in his bed, wearing his shirt. They had moved apart naturally during sleep, but she was still close enough to touch. He didn’t want to startle her, however. For several moments, he just looked. He wasn’t sure what to do next, either with her or with the cipher.

Rhys had become so… important to him in such a short time, something that he had little experience with. And even now, he knew he could easily drive her away by acting too impulsively, or indulging his more possessive instincts. As for the code, he had reached a dead end. He was fairly certain he had found the book that was the key, but even so, it was too difficult to crack, a bitter admission.

Perhaps the thing to do, in both cases, was to leave it in her hands. He leaned over her. “Rhys,” he said in a low voice, brushing the strands of hair from her face, “It is nearly sunset.” Hopefully she didn’t have any pressing appointments. 

It took her a few moments of grimacing and blinking before she was awake enough to respond. She turned into his arms, groaning about needing more sleep and burying her face in his chest. He sighed into her warmth, embracing her tightly. “Your heart is racing. Bad dream?” he murmured, stroking her hair.

“Spiders in Ayren’s throne room,” she replied, her arms snaking around his back and squeezing with surprising strength. “Something was watching me… I don't think that’s a good sign.”

He shuddered at the mention of spiders. “No. Not a good sign, I agree. We will have to decide what to do about Mephala. I believe I’ve found the proper book, but deciphering the code is beyond my abilities.” It was somehow much easier to admit when Rhys was holding him.

“Mephala can eat my ass,” she growled, her frown formidable. 

He couldn't help laughing at that. “Actually, I believe ass-eating is in Saguine’s domain,” he said with a grin, and she rolled her eyes, but she didn’t leave his embrace.

Her scent swirled around him, the musky wolf note almost undetectable underneath the foresty aroma that was uniquely hers. His body wasn’t sure how to react to it now; part of him was ready to relax back into sleep, and part of him was… well. But that could wait. He traced his cool fingers over her back, pressing his lips to her cheek. “Perhaps the promise of a bath and something to eat will tempt you out of bed.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, her hands sliding up his back and pulling him into a slow kiss. “Food and hot water do sound nice…” 

“That does not make me wish to get out of bed,” he said with a low chuckle.

She sighed. “I guess that's the downside of a vampire lover, no snacks in the room.”

He grinned, both at her disappointment at the lack of snacks and at being called ‘lover’. The fact that it was literally true did not make it less pleasant to hear. “No, nothing that you wish to eat, in any case. What do you eat? Should I start keeping raw steaks around? Live goats?” he teased.

“Ha!” she said, grinning. “You think you’re making a joke about werewolves, but any normal bosmer would be pleased by that suggestion. I’m not picky with food as long as it’s food.”

She sat up, her hair like a fiery halo, and he pushed himself up to better appreciate it. “You are lovely,” he said, twirling a curl around his finger. She scowled at him. Eventually, he swore to himself, he would get her used to accepting compliments, but for now he kissed the corner of her mouth to soothe her ruffled temper. 

“Unfortunately, I neither have raw meat nor can I cook so we will have to endure social interaction to procure your breakfast. Also, a major disadvantage of living in the Mages’ Guild is sharing the bathtub. There shouldn’t be anyone in it right now, but it does mean we have to dress before bathing. Unless you want to teleport downstairs,” he added with an upward flick of his eyebrows.

She considered for a moment, brow furrowed, and then she shoved him back onto the bed, stretching out on top of him with a mischievous grin. “Do your poofy thing. I don’t feel like getting dressed.”

“You know, you’re being rather distracting for someone who wants me to do magic,” he said in a low voice, wrapping his arms around her back and encircling her with his long legs.

Her grin widened. “Maybe you're just too easily distracted.” He snorted. Somehow he doubted there were many people in Tamriel who would not be distracted by having Rhys half-naked on top of them, but he kept the thought to himself, lest he be bitten again.

“Luckily, I have a great deal of practice,” he murmured with a half- smile, taking a deep breath to center himself. They rushed downward, landing on a damp stone floor in a whirl of steam.

No one screamed. That was usually a good sign.

*********************

The teleport took less than the space of one held breath. Rhys barely had time to close her eyes. Every time they poofed, she felt a little less nauseous. She decided not to think too hard about the implications.

Pressing a quick kiss to his lips, she freed herself from his arms and stood. It was a nice bathing room, a giant tiled basin already filled with steaming water that swirled in lazy circles as it was magically cleaned and circulated. It was empty for now, just as Oliver predicted, but there was no telling when that would change. Rhys had no intention of letting a bunch of stuffy mages disturb them. With a quick turn of a key and a whispered spell for good measure, the door was locked.

“Now no one can bother us,” she said with a smirk, pulling off Oliver’s shirt and tossing it at his head. 

He caught it smoothly and threw it behind his shoulder without looking. “One might think you were planning something nefarious,” he said with a crooked smile. 

“Nefarious? That does sound like me,” she said, her eyebrows flicking upward in amusement. His eyes traveled appreciatively over her form as she stepped into the bath, which she did not mind in the least.

She let herself sink into the scalding hot water, groaning in delight as her muscles started to unknot. “Are you coming?” she asked, looking back at him with a teasing smile.

“Yes, yes. I am beginning to believe I’m as easily distracted as you say I am,” he said, grumbling without any force behind it. He winced as he stepped into the water, and she wondered if it was more startling because he was naturally so cold. How sensitive was his skin, exactly? He sat down across from her, stretching out his ridiculously long legs, and before she could think better of it, she floated right over and settled herself in his lap.

He kissed her shoulder, and one of his arms moved around her waist, pulling her close against his chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she'd felt so relaxed. It was almost unreal, like a bubble of peace and safety protecting them from the outside world. A bubble she feared would burst the moment they stepped outside these walls…

He reached out to twirl his fingers through one of her crimson curls. “Shall I wash your hair?” he said in a low voice. 

The question surprised her. “You want to wash my hair?”

“Yes, I do. If you have never had the pleasure of having your hair washed by a lover, you’ve been depriving yourself.”

“Knock yourself out, I guess,” she said with a chuckle. “But I don't know about depriving myself. I don’t think I’ve had a lover long enough to get to this point…” She always left in the morning, never to return. She and Naryu had once gotten drunk and ended up in bed, but that was different. The beauty in their friendship was that no one asked questions, and no one expected anything other than basic loyalty. 

Certainly, no one had ever bathed with her or washed her hair… not since she got too old for her mother to do it. It was another frightening yet strangely delightful example of how far Oliver had pushed himself into her life.

“Never? That won’t do,” he murmured. “Not that it hasn’t been a long time for me.” It wasn’t clear whether he was talking about hair washing or taking a lover. Maybe it was both. He had mentioned something in the library about seducing people to feed on them. Maybe he always left afterward too. “Close your eyes,” he said, and a flood of warm water washed over her head and shoulders.

She let out a heavy sigh, leaning back against him. “We need to figure out what to do next. We can’t leave the whole mess with Mephala as it is…” A bottle was uncorked behind her, and she smelled the soap, pine needles and snowberries. That was a part of his scent that she enjoyed, and now she would smell like him too. For some reason that pleased her, though she didn't think it should.

“Do you still think Sotha Sil would be willing to look at this cipher?” he asked as he massaged the soap into her hair. She hummed in delight at the sensation, closing her eyes. “Otherwise, I have a friend in the Psijic Order who might help, but everything moves at a slower pace in Artaeum. It might be months before we heard anything.”

“Hm… I don’t think we have the time to wait till those detached magic monks move their asses and actually produce results we can use,” she said. Behind her, she could hear him stifling a laugh. “I think Sotha Sil would be our best bet. He does owe me one… and He loves mysteries. That old nerd.” She shrugged. Oliver poured the water over her head again to rinse away the soap, and his long fingers slipped through her hair, finding the tangles in her curls and and working them gently free. It was so soothing that she let out a sigh. He pressed his lips to the side of her throat, and she shivered, her mind wandering to more scandalous places. She forced herself to think.

“I suppose Clockwork City it is, then. I'm not looking forward to it, though I don’t mind Lord Seth so much. For a dunmer god that is 90% machine, he is pretty hot,” she said, grinning at Oliver in teasing challenge. She was curious to know what he would say.

“Hmmm,” he replied, eyes narrowed. “So what you’re saying is that you have a type, and that type is much older men who love books,” he said with a smirk.

She laughed softly at the unexpected reply. “I suppose I do have a type,” she admitted, thinking of her former lovers. There had not been many, but they all had been older. “Older, yes. Books? Not so much…”

“I am glad I’m suitably ancient for your tastes,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Obviously, I'm not at all opposed to traveling there, though I do not know where it is. How long will you need to prepare?”

“I always travel light. Everything I have is in your room, stored in the magical pouches on my belt.” She contemplated for a moment. “The entrance to Clockwork City is in Mournhold. On a ship, it’ll take us a day, maybe one and a half, to get there.”

He shuddered. “You know how they say vampires cannot travel over open water? I was shipwrecked once, and it was one of the worst experiences of my long life. I was starving, and there was no escape from the sun during the day except to sink to the bottom of the ocean. And I do need to breathe, occasionally.” He shook himself. “I would rather use the Mages’ Guild teleport but if you want to go by sea you’ll have to seal me in a box. Either way, I’ll need about a day to prepare, to make sure I have enough blood potions for several weeks. I’ll send most of my things home.”

Rhys shook her head, not quite sure whether to believe his story or to assume he didn't like boats because he got seasick. His mention of home, however, made her stop in her tracks. “You… have a home?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise. She had always assumed he was kind of like her, restless and traveling with no safe haven to return to.

His reply was halting. “I have a four hundred year old stone farmhouse in Camlorn where I keep my things, yes. I don’t spend much time there. It was my parents’ house,” he added in a low voice. “I don’t enjoy staying there.”

The change in his voice was startling, and she looked back at him. His expression was dark and far away, and she knew this was one of his secrets, the ones she had always sensed lurking behind his wit. Her own thoughts wandered to the village where she once lived, her mother’s laugh in the air and trees as far as the eye could see. Her heart throbbed painfully, and a knot formed in her throat.

When she spoke, her voice was a little rough. “Still, it’s a place to return to,” she 

“It is,” he said, his expression turning thoughtful. “I do have to go back occasionally to make sure the roof isn’t leaking and skeevers aren’t nesting in my books.” Part of her wanted to ask, wanted to know about his parents, about his house, about whatever was now bringing an almost wistful gleaming to his eyes. But now wasn't the time to go wading through painful memories. She was sure he wanted to avoid them as much as she did. She took a deep breath.

“Alright then. We’ll take the teleporter to Mournhold and from there to Clockwork City. Sounds easy enough. They should have the attacking machines fixed by now.”

“Murderous machines? It sounds delightful. Better than spiders at any at any rate. It is a fine plan. I’ll contact the Mages’ Guild in Mournhold about blood potions. They usually like advance warning before I come to visit anyway, even if we don’t plan to stay.”

“Hm. Spiders… no, but critters with six legs that explode in your face and spit fire at you, if you’re not fast enough. Clockwork City is like the wet dream of a dwemer enthusiast… which is probably why Sotha Sil built it,” she said with a shake of her head. “Almost everyone down there is… odd. Must be the lack of sun.”

“Mechanical spiders? How charming,” he said dryly. “There is truly no sunlight?” It was natural that he would be interested. She wondered if he missed it. She certainly would have.

“No… well, there is, but it’s artificial. The moon and stars are glowing orbs of Sotha Sil’s memories cause he can’t store them all in his head. Apparently it’s too small or something,” she said with a shrug. “The gods only know what he made the sun out of, but it sure as hell isn’t the real sun.”

“I cannot wait to see it,” he said, his eyes alight with anticipation. “It sounds fascinating. As well as convenient. It hasn’t been safe for me to be out during the day since I was last in Artaeum.”

There was something endearing about his delight. It was almost childlike, and it made her smile. “Now that that's decided,” she said, kissing his cheek before slipping out of his grasp. She pulled herself out of the water and sat on the rim of the tub, keeping him between her thighs. He looked up at her with curious interest. She gave him a playful wink as she picked up the soap. “I better make sure there isn’t any dust in there.”

**********************

“Be my guest,” he said, his eyes crinkling in a smile. His mind had been racing to the journey ahead, but he couldn't be anything but pleased that she wished to return his affectionate gesture. However, she murmured a spell and a veritable geyser of water shot up in his face, soaking his hair as well as going directly up his nose. He let out a shout of surprise which only got him a mouthful of water.

“Oops, I didn’t mean for it to be that explosive,” she said, though she could hardly breathe for laughing. 

He spit a fountain of water in her direction, and she ducked out of the way, still stifling laughter. “Forgive me for not believing that wasn’t exactly as you intended,” he said. He shook his wet hair like a dog, spraying water everywhere, and then settled down in front of her.

“I suppose I can forgive you,” she said with a low laugh, smiling down on him softly as her fingers moved through his hair, and he sighed with pleasure, letting his eyes fall closed.

“Madame Rhys, I am positively humbled by your magnanimous gesture,” he said, waving his hand in an exaggerated flourish.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said tugging gently on his dark locks. “Why do you pronounce my name so weirdly? You make it sound like cheese! It’s not >reese<, it’s Rhys!”

The sensation of having his hair lightly pulled sent chills down his spine. He felt like he had to assemble his brain to process her question. “I’m pronouncing it like it is spelled. Rhys.” He didn’t know what she meant about cheese. In his mind, it rhymed with peace. “That’s an old Breton name. A male name,” he added with an upward flick of his eyebrows. “I assumed your parents were eccentric. You pronounce it Rhys?” 

“Male? Beton?!” she snorted. “Ha, no. My parents were as wood elfy as they could be, trust me. Tree huggers, as some would say.”

The way she spoke her name rhymed with kiss. He tested it on his tongue, frowning. “How very strange. Do you know where it came from?” Oliver had always been interested in names. His own was boring; it was after a fruit they grew near the Imperial city, chosen because his parents had been in favor of joining the empire. And look where that had led.

She shook her head. “Rhys is a name I chose for myself cause the one I was given is absolutely ridiculous and shall never be uttered, ever, “ she grumbled. “But that actually explains the weird looks the Bretons gave me when they saw my name on paper before they saw me in person. I always thought they were reclusive weirdos who'd never seen an elf before.”

He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes. “Rhys is a nickname? How delightful. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me your birth name? I’ll make it worth your while,” he said, his voice dropping lower. He kissed the inside of her thigh, just grazing the skin with his teeth. 

She jumped and shivered at the sensation, and then slapped his shoulder playfully. “I am absolutely certain. If I tell you, I’d have to kill you, and that would be a waste,” she said, baring her teeth.

Of course, the more strongly she refused to tell him, the more he wanted to know. But he didn’t actually want to anger her, or endanger the trust they were building. He grinned up at her. “Killing me would be a waste, would it? I feel I’ve received a promotion.” 

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she replied, her voice a little rough as she poured the water slowly over his head. “I’ve grown strangely used to you. It would be a shame to have to adjust to your absence just yet.”

He closed his eyes again as the water flowed over his face. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to indulge in this sort of thing, the comfort of another person’s touch. And he knew in his heart, if not consciously, that there was something about her that made it better, more right. She moved back into the water next to him, moving her hands over his chest and shoulders. Even when he wasn’t cold, he loved the feeling of her hands on his skin, and he hummed with pleasure. 

“Someday you may even admit that you like me,” he said teasingly. Not that he seriously thought she didn’t. But he did wish that he knew of a way to ease her fears about him. About them. It might help if he knew what they were. But this was undeniably progress. 

“One day, maybe,” she said, half teasing and half covering up some emotion she was not yet ready to share. “So,” she said with a smirk, “Now that we have decided on our course of action we have two options… first: we get ready and feed me before I get very grumpy and start hunting mortals for lunch; or-”

She leaned in and kissed him deeply before sinking her teeth into his bottom lip, dragging them softly over the soft flesh. Her golden eyes were gleaming with mischief. “We do something naughty and scandalous, and then go get me something to eat.”

He chuckled low in his throat, running his fingers lightly up her back. “A scandal? Would you like to create one? Perhaps I should try to make you scream.” His lips moved down the side of her jaw to her neck.

She sighed and tilted her head back, pressing herself against his chest, her hands slipping around his back, around his neck, up into his hair. “Such promises,” she purred, “Let’s see if you live up to it, then~”

He kissed down the side of her throat, going for the spot he already knew she liked, and he nipped and sucked hard enough to leave a mark. Even if it didn't last very long, the process was enjoyable, the way she shivered and gasped. His fingers glided over her breasts, and he kissed between them as well. “Are you casting doubt on my abilities?” he inquired, his eyes glinting. This was one skill he confident in, after 300 years of practice.

Her eyes followed his every movement, her lips curved to a sensual smile. “No, I’m just worried about your stamina. You are very old after all,” she teased.

“Worried about me, are you?” he growled. “We may have to delay our departure, as I’m afraid we’ll be occupied for the rest of the evening.” Part of him was aware that she was trying to rile him up, but in this case, he didn’t mind proving her wrong. He lifted her back up on the edge of the tub and buried his face between her legs, kissing the inside of her thighs, breathing her in as his fingers stroked down her ribs. 

Rhys leaned back, propping herself up on her elbows. She .et her legs fall open slowly, her eyes gleaming with a challenge. “I’m not fragile, Oliver. I don’t mind a little rough housing,” she said, her voice low and silken.

“Oh, I know,” he said with an anticipatory smile. “But roughness is for later. Right now, I intend to take my time.” Just to show her what he meant, he slipped his tongue inside her folds, savoring the way she tasted while moving his tongue in a slow circle, purposely avoiding the place he knew would bring her the most pleasure. If she was going to challenge him, he was willing to play. Maybe he would even get her to beg.

She laughef and placed one leg over his shoulder to pull him closer. “If you take too long,” she said with a husky voice, “I’ll bite you.”

“That would be just terrible,” he said with a toothy grin, chuckling as she used her leg to reel him in. Not that he expected her to be shy, but it her open display of want still set a fire in his blood. He let his tongue curl around the sensitive button, feeling it throb, and circled it slowly, enough to build the tension but only just.

Her hips began to move and he laid his palm flat on her stomach to hold her still. “Patience, darling,” he said with a gleam in his eyes. “It will be worth the wait.” Then he bent again to his task with just a hint more pressure, and slipped a finger inside her.

She laid back, her hands behind her head, though he knew in her case it was more of a challenge than a gesture of submission. She would only play as long as he kept her interest. Lucky he knew what he was doing. He fluttered his tongue against her, keeping up a steady rhythm with his finger until he could tell by the tenor of her moans that she was close. He slowed his pace, and she growled and whimpered with need.

“Oliver, fuck, don't stop,” she panted, and he hummed with delight, slipping a second finger inside her. It was difficult to maintain his focus, feeling how slick she was and watching her writhe. He knew how good it would feel to bury himself inside her. His erection throbbed just thinking about it, but he was also determined to bring her to a shattering climax, just as he had promised. As her back arched and her cries increased in pitch, his jaw started to ache, but it was so worth it. The pleasure of watching as she came apart with a wild cry, spasming and bucking against his hand was enough to send him nearly over the edge as well.

He took two deep, shuddering breaths before gathering her into his arms and bringing her back into the water. She was still fairly limp, her eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure. “Did that meet with your expectations?” he asked as she wound her arms around his neck.

“That was pretty good,” she said, arching her eyebrow, “but surely that isn't all you can do. Unless you're already too tired.”

“You minx,” he growled, and her eyes lit with satisfaction. “Turn around, then. I'll show you who’s tired.”

***********************

Rhys legs were still feeling a little wobbly when they got back to his room to get dressed. She bent to lace the armor tight around her thigh, sneaking a peek at Oliver under her arm. He was naked except for a towel draped over the back of his neck, his skin almost glowing in the candlelight. The sight of his lean muscles moving as he looked through his wardrobe reminded her of what they'd just shared in the bath. A pleased smirk played at the corners of her mouth, but the thudding of her heart wasn't due to desire.

He was important to her. When she looked at him, she didn't just think about the way he tasted. Or about how next time she was going to have him against the wall. She also thought about how good it had felt to fall asleep in his arms. Even dared to wonder what they might do, after this mess with Mephala was over. It made her palms sweat to even consider, but with him she felt strangely… whole again. Like her life might have a future worth planning for, instead of an endless temporary present.

A sudden, sharp pain in her side made her flinch. The werewolf bite on her hip felt strangely sore. She frowned. Full moon was still a good 3 weeks away… and the last time the scar had hurt otherwise had been… she shuddered to think.

Oliver’s voice brought her back to reality. “Is it troubling you?” he asked as he moved toward her. He was mostly dressed now, but his shirt was still unbuttoned, and the contrast between the crimson fabric and his pale stomach was mildly distracting.

Her frown softened as she met his eyes. “Hm? Yeah. Usually it aches like this when the full moon is approaching, I don't know what the deal is now,” she replied.

His brow furrowed as he peered at the gnarled, pink flesh, but he didn't move to touch. “Where did it come from, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She rubbed the scar as memories flooded back. Sometimes in her dreams she could still feel the teeth piecing her skin, biting so deep she thought they'd hit bone. No one had expected her to survive the bite, let alone the transformation, but she had. No matter what had been thrown at her, she had lived. Just not quite in one piece.

“That’s a werewolf bite,” she said, sitting back on the bed. “The bastard took a good chunk out of me before I slit his throat. That’s the thing with werewolves. We are stronger than mortals, faster. But we still age and scar. Not as fast as normal people, but we aren't frozen in time… like you are.” That was another thing she refused to think about further.

“Hmmmm. I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with curse scars,” he said in a gentle voice. “That explains why it looks so painful.”

She shook her head, grabbing her cuirass and slipping it over her shoulders. “It’s not that bad. Would you mind lacing me up?”

He nodded. “In any case, I think I’d be relieved to see a little aging,” he said, moving up behind her and taking ahold of the laces. 

“Aging isn’t as fun as people make it out to be,” she said jokingly. “The older you get, the more things you have to do, and the more people expect from you. It’s rather dull.”

“True, but I’m already old enough to have responsibilities,” he replied, chuckling. “The only reason the Mages’ Guild doesn’t ask more of me is probably because they’re afraid I might get bored and eat them. At least if I had some gray in my hair they might defer to my wisdom.”

“Maybe they took one look at your fashion choices and thought, ‘If he dresses like this, I don't think we can trust his advice’,” she said, peering back at him with a teasing smile.

“You wound me,” he said, holding his hand to his forehead in melodramatic fashion. “As a very old and scary vampire, it is my privilege to dress just how I please. My clothing is both comfortable and practical.” She rolled her eyes. “Please tell me if the wound continues to bother you,” he said, kissing the back of her neck as he finished lacing. “I would hate to ignore it, if it means something important.” 

The kiss on her neck made her smile. Such a small little gesture of affection, and yet it warmed her to the bones. With quick, trained movements, she put on her bracers and stowed her weapons. To the untrained eye, she might even appear unarmed.

She turned back to Oliver, grabbing him by the hip and pulling him close, her hand slipping under the fabric of his shirt. He didn't resist, resting his chin on the top of her head as her hand moved almost automatically to the spot where the silver blade had almost taken his life the month before. There was nothing there but smooth skin, she knew that already, but in her memory, the wound was still fresh.

“Don’t worry. When it was inflicted, it was painful but I was incapable of feeling it. Now that it’s healed over, it only aches at times, as scars do,” she said reassuringly. Her hand slid up his ribs to press against the center of his chest. His hand moved over hers, and as he leaned down to kiss her, she felt his heart thud slowly under her palm. She looked up at him with wide eyes.

“It does that sometimes,” he said with an amused smile. “I did tell you that I am not exactly a corpse.”

She shook her head. It was a mystery to be solved some other time, though she swore her hand was tingling like it had been shocked. “Anyway, we should hurry and get everything in motion so we can depart for Mournhold. Just make sure word of our plans  doesn’t travel to Almalexia. The upcoming audience with one of the Tribunal is more than enough for my taste.”

He nodded, suddenly thoughtful, and stroked her hair. “You said before that you were soulless when you were bitten. I would like to know more, if you are willing to tell me?” 

His question made her freeze, instantly. Her first instinct was to draw away, distance herself at once. _Too close! Too close!_ her mind seemed to scream.

It took her a few breaths to calm herself enough to think, but in the end she still couldn’t bear his touch as memories flooded back into her head. “I…” she started, taking a few steps back, wrapping her arms around herself as cold seemed to seep into her blood.

“It’s complicated…. and… hard,” she said finally, “I… there was a period where I didn’t have a soul.”

He didn’t move at first, which she appreciated. “If this is too painful, you do not have to speak of it. But I would like to understand. I want to… be here for you.” He took a measured step in her direction, holding out his hand. “I know it is difficult, but nothing you say will diminish my regard for you.”

Rhys shook her head. He didn’t understand what she meant. Of course he didn’t… She couldn’t really blame him for that. If she hadn’t lived through it herself she wouldn’t believe it either. “No…No, Oliver,” she sighed and rubbed her face with her hands, “You don’t understand…”

Shaking her head she took another step back as he approached her. She couldn’t be touched now. Not now that the memories of pain and torture pressed against her so carefully crafted walls. “I meant it literally. I had no soul.”

She turned away, stepping towards the window and looking out into the night. “Don’t ask more of me,” she whispered.

*********************

He blew out a long breath. Nothing she said made sense. How could she not have a soul? How could she lose it and get it back? It wasn’t a kind of magic he was familiar with, but what was more important to him was her. 

She looked so small and hurt and alone in front of the window. All he wanted to do was find the problem and fix it, even if intellectually, he knew it wasn’t that simple. The feeling of helplessness was galling.

But she had pulled away, and he knew better than to push, even if leaving her alone felt like torture. “I don’t understand, but I… I will be here, if you need me,” he said, hoping he sounded less pained than he felt. He finished buttoning his shirt and pulled a vest out of the wardrobe, his eyes flicking to Rhys’s form outlined in the moonlight. She hadn’t fled, so that was something. It felt his heart was strung out on the distance between them. Why did it feel like the most important task of his life to be the man that she needed him to be?

He forced himself to think about the journey ahead. Rhys was right about not revealing too much about their intentions. He would contact the Mournhold Guild only to inform them of his arrival and ask about blood potions without revealing anything else. It was hardly their business who he consorted with, otherwise. Then he would start sorting his belongings.

Later, maybe fifteen minutes, perhaps even as much as an hour, he felt a warm hand on the small of his back. When he looked to Rhys, she seemed back to her usual self, or at least, her eyes told him, half pleading and half commanding, that she wished to pretend that everything was fine. He decided, for the moment, to accept this outcome. “Can we go get something to eat now?”

Obviously, she could have gone at any time without him, especially considering he didn't even eat. He realized, like a sudden collision with a hammer, that this was both concession and peace offering. She wished to continue to spend time with him and be seen with him in public. Well, he would have to be a colossal idiot to turn down that offer. “Of course,” he said, and they went. If some of the inhabitants of the Mages’ Guild glared or made comments about ‘the noise’, he tried not to let it go to his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and enjoy!


	6. Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They travel to the Clockwork City, and Rhys runs into an old friend. After an audience with Sotha Sil, an argument with Rhys leads Oliver to wander the city alone. Of course he gets into trouble. She comes to his rescue, and begins to realize her true feelings.

Their arrival in Mournhold was as uneventful as Rhys hoped it would be. Oliver gathered his potions from the Mages’ Guild, and she led him into the bustling city. She drew a deep breath through her nose and smelled nothing but the normal scents of men and mer and all the other things that came with a large urban center.

They went past Almalexia’s palace, trying not to look suspicious, and down a hidden path to a waterfall. Concealed behind the thundering rush of water was a cave, and at one end, there was a door behind a metal gate. It was easier to find than Rhys remembered. 

“Right,” she said, stopping in front of the gate and facing Oliver with her arms crossed over her chest. “Before we enter, I have some conditions.”

His eyebrows flicked upward. “Conditions? I know how to behave in polite society, I assure you.” She was undeterred by his sarcasm.

“Number one, no metal body parts. None. Trust me it’s not worth it,” she said, raising a finger.

“Actually, I don’t think it would be possible for me. Regeneration would interfere with any sort of artificial limb replacement,” he replied, a bit sadly.

“Number two, no endless debates about dusty books with the disciples or whatever they call themselves. Please. I will eat someone out of boredom. And lastly, don’t get all doe-eyed when we meet Sotha Sil,” she said, counting the points on her hand. “And one more thing, you are absolutely not allowed to get a boner in the basilica, no matter how many books you see.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “How are you going to enforce that, I wonder? Will you… inspect me, periodically? I think that would be counterproductive.”

Unable to keep a straight face at his response she chuckled and grabbed him by the belt until their hips collided. “Yes. I will periodically shove my hands down your pants to see what’s going on,” she said with a chuckle, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Far be it for me to protest your methods,” he said, his voice dropping lower in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. “But I feel that may delay our visit somewhat.” She let him have one lingering kiss before letting him go. “Should I propose a condition of my own?” he said playfully. “If you start flirting with Sotha Sil, then I will too, and it will be awkward for everyone.”

She grinned in response. “I doubt it would work. Last time I was here, I asked Sotha Sil if his mechanical hand had a vibrate function. I don't think he got what I was implying.”

“I used to know a spell that would make your tongue vibrate but it had the unfortunate side effect of making your whole face numb, so it was less useful than you might think.”

“Vibrating tongue,” she scoffed, “If you're so bad with your mouth that you need a spell to help you, you ought to stay away from pussy.”

“Some people enjoy novelty,” he said archly. “Now who’s being a killjoy?”

She shook her head, kissing his cheek before turning to the gate and pressing her hand against the metal. The gate glowed as if in recognition, giving way to a tunnel built in dwemer style. “Let’s hope they got rid of the angry robots,” she said as they started down the dimly lit corridor.

“All seems quiet,” Oliver murmured. His eyes were wide, reflecting back red light as he gazed around at the battle-scarred architecture. She could almost see his fingers itching to pick up some discarded cogs. They reached an archway that opened into a cavernous chamber. Even their breaths seemed to echo in the emptiness, but Rhys moved inside without hesitation, toward a metal sphere floating in the center of the room, glowing with faint light.

Rhys pointed at the strange orb. “That is Clockwork City.”

Oliver approached cautiously, his body language putting her in mind of a curious housecat. “So people live inside here, all the time? I wonder if it has any long-term magical effects.” His eyes were practically luminous with interest.

There was something both endearing and surprising at his open wonder. You'd think after three hundred years, there wouldn't be anything left to be curious or excited about. She shook her head. “It isn't just a city… well, you'll see. Just do what I do.”

With that, she pressed her hand to the smooth surface of the sphere. The glowing intensified, surrounding her whole body. The sensation of this teleport, or whatever it was, was even more nauseating that Oliver’s poofing, but it was over in a moment. Then she was standing in the bright light of the artificial sun of Sotha Sil’s domain. A road stretched out in front of her, leading to the distant walls of the city.

Oliver appeared beside her, wincing in the sudden brightness, and holding his hand in front of his eyes. It must be strange for him, she realized, to be out during the daytime without fear. His skin was so pale it threw back reflected light like the moon, but his expression as he looked around was delighted. “Where shall we go first?” he asked.

“Let’s go see Sotha Sil. We may as well get it over with,” she said, starting down the path and beckoning for him to follow.

Clockwork City was as busy as Rhys remembered it. The sounds of people and machines filled the air as much as the scents of rust and oil. Here and there you could hear the incredible off key strumming of a metal bard.

Oliver, of course, wanted to stop and stare at them, along with several other things, but she dragged him along by the sleeve. “After we’re done with Lord Seth, I promise I'll take you all over this dratted town.” 

Just as she stepped onto the platform in front of the basilica a sudden scent caught her off guard. She knew that aroma as well as she knew her own name, but it couldn’t be…

Before she could react in any way, someone grabbed her from behind. She felt the chill of a blade at her throat, and her own daggers appeared in her hands. Instinct took over as she fought back, but it was no use.

A moment later, she found herself held immobile against a keather-clad body, a blade between her shoulders while her own gleaming dagger was pressed against a furry throat. She knew without looking, but she looked anyway, unable to breathe as her eyes moved up the body of the khajit and met his yellow eyes. There he was, Razum’Dar, first of the Eyes of the Queen.

Rhys’s thoughts were blank. All she could do was stare at him, unable to react, unable to speak. How was he here? Why? She was faintly aware that Oliver had jumped to his feet.

“My lady Amarhyllis,” Raz purred, his familiar accent sending shivers down her spine, “This one is pleased to see that you are still as feisty as a kitten. What a pleasant surprise! Raz didn’t imagine he would run into you here, of all places.”

The sound of her name, her birth name, rolling so effortlessly off his tongue shook her from her daze. “Do NOT call me that! You know I hate it!” she hissed at him, pointing her weapon right between his eyes. “What the bloody hell are you doing here, of all gods-damned places?!”

*****************

Oliver knew why Rhys wanted to hurry to Sotha Sil’s tower, but he still wished he had about six more eyes in order to properly appreciate the city. He was once again trying to get a glimpse of the artificial sun via the reflection when quite suddenly, something swept his legs out from under him. He landed hard on his back and was briefly stunned before leaping up again. Lighting crackled to life in his right hand while he drew a dagger with his left, pointing it at the throat of the Altmer who has tripped him.

But his eyes were on Rhys and the khajit, on the stunned and horrified expression on her face. Not fear, but shock, which was quickly replaced by fury. She pushed away from her attacker, lashing out with her tongue.

Oliver blinked, letting his spell fade. “What in Oblivion is going on? Do you two know each other?”

Before Rhys could even answer his question, the khajit pushed her blade out of his face and bowed, his expression smug. “Yes,” he drawled, “Razum’dar has been friends with this kitten for many moons, though he hasn’t seen her in almost as many.”

The kahjit gave Oliver a thorough inspection without a waver in his expression. “Though Amarhyllis’s taste in companions must have changed in recent years to be letting a vampire follow her around.”

Baring her teeth at the big cat, Rhys growled more dangerously. “You’d better watch your mouth before I cut off your tail and feed it to you! I’m not your kitten! And that name-”

“Is still your name… yes?” Razum Dar said with innocence belied by his smirk.

“It is not! My name is Rhys! Now stop it before I bite you!” 

Oliver scowled. He couldn’t even be pleased that he’d learned Rhys’s birth name because he was so irritated by the situation. The khajit was insufferable, the way he addressed Rhys as if she was a child he was chastising. And meanwhile, she was all too obviously having mixed emotions about this encounter. Judging by her leaping heartbeat, she had feelings for the cat, or at least she had at one time.

Jealousy was a hot spike in Oliver’s heart as he sheathed his dagger, made all the more painful by the knowledge that this would hardly be welcomed. He felt like biting something, and not in a fun way. “Perhaps Rhys appreciates me because I am not nearly so rude,” he said cooly, slightly emphasizing the name that she preferred. He could feel his nails digging into his palms from how tightly his fists were clenched.

Razum’dar’s eyes darted back to Oliver. “She appreciates you, does she?” he asked in an amused tone, “This one can see that you are a man in fear of his territory. Not to worry, my friend. Raz is just a simple, but strikingly handsome, khajit that happens to be am old and trusted friend of our little kitten.”

Oliver rolled his eyes, blowing a sharp breath out his nose. The effort of holding back a number of scathing comments made his jaw hurt. There was some consolation in knowing they couldn’t be that close any more, if they hadn’t spoken in years.

“That’s quite enough now, Raz,” Rhys said, sighing, “I doubt you came all this way just to annoy me to death. Clockwork City might be technically neutral but Mournhold is still very much part of the Pact. Anyone could strike you down, put your head on a pike, and be declared a hero for their trouble. You wouldn’t take such a risk if it wasn't important.”

She crossed her arms, but the khajit only shrugged. “I am here on Queen Ayren’s behalf, and since you are no longer a part of Her Majesty’s Court, by your own choice, it is no longer your concern.”

“I… had my reasons,” she murmured, her eyes downcast.

“This one is sure you did. Just as you had reasons to join the Thieves’ Guild… and then the Dark Brotherhood.” It was clear the khajit didn't approve of the path Rhys had chosen.

“You wouldn’t understand, Raz,” she said flatly.

“How could this one understand? You refused to explain.”

However painful this conversation was, it was quite informative. Oliver had known that Rhys had worked for the Dominion, but not for the Queen directly. And now he realized that this khajit must be the one who she thought was killed in Mephala’s temple, which had indirectly resulted in Oliver’s own near-fatal stabbing. It was a bitter discovery.

But more important than his irritation was the increasing emotional distress the khajit was causing Rhys with this line of questioning. Even if Oliver was himself quite interested to hear the answers to these questions. “This hardly seems like the time or the place for this conversation,” he said, putting his hand lightly on Rhys’s shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

It was a confusing few seconds. Rhys flinched at his touch, which he supposed he ought to have expected, but it seemed to ground her in some undefinable way. Her spine straightened, and she pulled out the identifying tags they’d recovered from the bodies of the Dominion soldiers, flinging them at the 

“Maybe you should stop sniffing after me, and take more interest in your own agents,” she sneered, “Then they wouldn’t have to be tortured and killed in some rotten cave. Consider that my donation to Her Majesty’s behalf.”

Then Oliver was being dragged down the street by the sleeve. He suppressed the impulse to flash rude gestures behind his back. There was no need to make the situation more uncomfortable. But at Rhys’s current walking speed, they would reach Sotha Sil’s palace in less than a minute.

He steeled himself for the expected blowback and grabbed Rhys’s wrist to stop her. “I think you ought to take a moment to calm down. Sotha Sil will likely not take kindly to you breathing fire at him,” he said in a calm but teasing tone.

The sudden stop made her stumble and she spun around, snapping her teeth at him. “I’ll shove my boot up his metal arse if he doesn’t take kindly to whatever the fuck I do!  As I am the reason Sotha Sil is still in his Yffre-forsaken metal box, I think I can do whatever the hell I please!”

“As amusing as that would no doubt be, that would hardly inspire him to help us,” Oliver said with a half-smile.

She glared at him and tried to shake off his hand, but he was just as strong as she was. It took far less effort to hold onto her wrist than it would take to dislodge him. “Gods damn that stupid cat,” she growled, finally giving in and taking a deep breath.

He took it as a sign that he could let go. It didn’t help that his own emotions were all over the place, but he was resolved to put a lid on his feelings for the time being, though he thought he might need a long walk, later. He clasped his hands in front of him. “I know that was an unpleasant surprise. Would it help you to talk about it or do you just need a moment?”

She scowled at him, rubbing her wrist. “No, I do not want to talk about it,” she snarled.

He wished he could pretend the refusal didn’t hurt. After all, this probably wasn’t the best time to be having an emotional conversations. But he couldn’t help feeling that she still didn’t trust him. He shook his head, stuffing all of his emotions deep inside himself.

“Of all the places to run into the Dominion…,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair. “That means Ayren has gotten wind of something going on.” 

“Let us hope that will make them less likely to interfere, at the very least,” he said, but she didn't reply, taking several more slow breaths before shaking herself. 

“Let’s get this over with. I'm going to need about five barrels of ale when we're done.”

“Lead the way.” He followed her the rest of the way to the palace consumed by his own tumultuous thoughts. Even the sounds of more bard automatons at the entrance couldn’t cheer him up.

The long climb to the top of Sotha Sil’s tower was diverting enough to somewhat distract Oliver from his melancholy. The top floor was a dome of glass and metal from which the whole of the Clockwork City could be seen, spread out below like some sort of strange metallic blanket.

The Lord of the City was just as strange, more machine than mer. It was difficult not to stare, but as much as he’d made light of Rhys’s ‘conditions’, Oliver didn’t see any reason to make her more angry. Judging by the amount of attention Sotha Sil was paying to the book in his lap, there was at least one thing they had in common. He didn't initially seem to notice Rhys approaching, but she cleared her throat and he looked up. 

“It’s nice to see you, Lord Seth,” she said with a slight bow. “I’ve come to call in the reward for my actions last time I was here.”

Sotha Sil turned toward the sound of her voice, and approached with a dispassionate expression, his hands clasped behind his back. He was so tall Rhys barely reached his hip. “Ah… I remember you,” he said, his voice much smoother than Oliver might have expected, “Rhys of Valenwood. I am… pleased to see you return to my city.”

His eyes fell in Oliver as if he had only just registered his presence. There was no change in his expression, but his head tilted slightly to one side. “You are a curiosity, Rhys. And now you bring me another curiosity.”

Oliver’s eyebrows flicked upward at the words. “My name is Oliver Davies-Thorne. I am truly honored to be in your presence, but considering how much more of the world you have seen, I’m surprised you find anything about me particularly interesting.”

Sotha Sil turned his back on both of them stepping towards the edge of the glass dome, looking down at his city. “Rhys was born under special circumstances,” he said calmly, “Her turning was extraordinarily unusual… unique even… as was yours. In my lifetime, I have never encountered anything quite like either of you.”

At these words, Oliver felt like all the breath had been drawn from his lungs. “I remember almost nothing about my becoming a vampire. Do you know something about it?” he asked, his mind spinning like a top. Rhys has mentioned being soulless, and he hadn’t understood. Now the mystery was only getting deeper.

“I’m afraid I know too little to give you an answer,” Sotha Sil replied. Oliver huffed out a frustrated breath. Why did it seem like every time he came close to an answer to any of the puzzles currently plaguing his life, he only found himself with more questions?

“Let’s get back to the reason we came,” Rhys said with a hint of annoyance. “Last time I was here, I performed a service for this city and you. You promised me a favor in return, and now I'm calling it in. We’ve had a few run-ins with cultists of Mephala… something is going on, and we need to know what before we can stop it. We’ve found some sort of code, but we haven't been able to make sense of it. Since you love tricky shit I thought you might have more luck. Oliver? Do you mind?”

“Well… let me see this…‘tricky shit’ you speak of,” Sotha Sil said with an amused quirk of his brow, turning his attention back to Oliver. His approach was especially disconcerting, as Oliver had never before had to crane his neck to look at anyone.

“Ah, yes,” he said, pulling books and papers out of his coat. “We found notes on Dominion soldiers murdered by the cultists that seemed to contain a cipher. I believe I’ve found the proper book and key phrase, but even so, the code is too complex for me.” He held out the materials to Sotha Sil, glad he’d thought to make a magical copy of the text rather than just taking the book. Whatever Sotha Sil might feel about Vivec, Oliver doubted he would approve of thievery.

“I had previously discovered the existence of a secret cult of Mephala responsible for a series of murders around Kvatch. We were only able to explore a small section of the temple before retreating, but it seemed that they were… experimenting on prisoners, rather than simply sacrificing them.”

The Dunmer… deity or whatever he was… took the papers from Oliver's hands and moved to the huge desk. For a few minutes the only sounding the chamber were the minute clicks and squeaks of the gears turning all around them.

“Daedric princes are on the rise…,” Sotha Sil finally said, turning to Rhys. “You seem to draw Daedra towards you, entangling yourself within their plots without your intent.”

She sighed out a frustrated breath, running her hands through her hair. “It’s a curse. I’m cursed,” she groaned.

“Perhaps you are,” Sotha Sil said without batting an eye, which was less than comforting. “I shall honor my promise and grant your favor, Vestige. Until then, you are welcome to stay in my city. My people will get you settled.”

Oliver's thoughts were churning. Rhys had mentioned prior dealings with Mephala, and obviously she was connected to Hircine via lycanthropy, but this sounded like something deeper. And what did ‘vestige’ mean? He would have to research, probably secretly, as he felt Rhys would be unlikely to tell him anything, but also would not appreciate him looking for his own answers.

In the meantime, the conversation was obviously over. Oliver followed Rhys’s example, hurriedly thanking Sotha Sil as she grabbed him by the sleeve again. He allowed himself to be led out of the tower and down several corridors to a guest chamber. There was some gratification in the fact that they were going to share. And there was only one bed. Rhys wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever, though at the moment he didn't think neither of them was in any shape for a long conversation. He felt scoured raw, emotionally.

He slipped his bag off his shoulder, hanging it on the back of the chair behind the desk and throwing his jacket over it. Then he sank into the chair with a sigh. “Perhaps if you’re hungry, you can go find an inn. I’m not sure Sotha Sil would even think to have a kitchen, and you did say you wanted several barrels of ale.”

Rhys had flopped onto the bed and buried her face in a pillow. She wrinkled her nose and pushed it away before replying. “They have food in the basilica. Not all of the servants are robots, though their tastes are a bit on the bland side,” she replied. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No,” he huffed. Actually, what he really wanted was to bury his face in her bosom and stay there the rest of the evening, but he assumed, with his own particular brand of oblivious self-loathing, that she would not appreciate this. “I simply did not wish you to feel as if you were obliged to keep me company if you would rather be elsewhere. I fear I won’t be a very pleasant companion at the moment,” he said with a sour twist of his mouth.

“Feel obliged?” she said, sitting up with a frown. “Oliver, I'm not staying with you out of some sort of obligation. If I didn't want to be here, I would leave.”

He sighed, her words somewhat easing the tightness in his chest, but his mind was still a jumble of unconnected information and confused emotions. _You would think,_ he told himself, _that I would be above jealousy at my age._ It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had many lovers in the past. But perhaps it was only that he was eager to share himself with Rhys, in a way that he never had with anyone else, and the fact that she didn’t seem interested in either listening or reciprocating was grating. Maybe he was just as selfish and arrogant as she had claimed. He wanted to lose himself in a book so he wouldn’t have to think about it.

To that end, he started pulling books out of his satchel, summoning them really, out of the pocket of Aetherius that his bag was keyed to. Rhys was not content to let him wallow, however. She got up from the bed and a moment later, she had taken ahold of his jaw and forced him to meet her eyes.

“What’s the matter with you? Clockwork City not as exciting as you thought?” Instinct made him lean into the warmth of her hand despite himself.

Still, even as much as he wanted to be truthful, partly in hope that she would do the same, it was rather embarrassing to admit. Finding the words was difficult, especially with her golden eyes piercing into him like particularly attractive daggers.

“It is only… I have been reminded how little I truly know about you. I wish… you would… trust me more. However, I have no desire to… bother you… with my unruly emotions. I realize that I promised to be more… patient about this sort of thing,” he finally said, sighing like a heated kettle. The relief of having spoken was somewhat overshadowed by his unease about her reaction. Her fingers tended against his face.

“Oliver…,” she sighed, clearly annoyed, which made him feel both more depressed and somewhat defensive. “First of all, you’re an idiot. The time is long past for you not to ‘bother’ me with your emotions. Like… weeks past. Surprise, I’m still here. So for the love of any god that is willing, stop your brooding. You’re too old for this nonsense.” She released her hold on his chin, pushing his hair back from his face almost idly before sitting back down on the bed.

He scowled, though the feeling of her hand in his hair made his eyes fall closed for a moment. “I appreciate your magnanimous tolerance,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I apologize that I haven’t immediately recovered from our run in with that… utterly _charming_ khajit you’re so _friendly_ with. On top of Sotha Sil’s rather ominous comments about my own origins that I cannot even remember.”

Rhys rolled her eyes. “Is Raz really the issue here?” she snapped. “Don’t pretend like I’m the first lover you’ve ever taken and expect the same of me. The only difference here is I’m not three hundred years old, so the people I might have shagged are still alive! And second of all, I have told you stuff. I literally told you that there was a period in my life where I had no soul and you didn’t get it! You thought I felt guilty as if I was regretting a kill or something. Not that I expected you to understand.”

“I did not think that,” he retorted, sighing in frustration. “I believe I’m right in assuming that we have both killed many people for which our feelings may have been mixed. I was simply trying to reassure you about what was clearly a painful memory. You are right, I did not understand what you meant, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish to.” 

“This is not about trust, Oliver! Or secrecy! Has it occurred to you that I might not want to relive the most traumatic moments of my life just to explain all of it to you?”

“I didn't expect-!” He shook his head, standing up and letting the last book tumble onto the desk with a thunk. “Damn me to Oblivion, I don’t want to fight,” he said, running both hands through his hair. “I’m going for a walk. I need to clear my head,” he said, pulling his jacket on and stalking out the door. Not wanting to bother trying to navigate the labyrinthine halls, he teleported to the gate and then out to the street.

It might have been an hour that he walked, maybe even more. The artificial sun began to set, and he paid little mind to his surroundings. It was only as the first stars began to come out that he noticed that he had wandered into a less well-kept part of town, though it hardly concerned him. His steps slowed. Why was it so difficult for them to talk about things?

Because, he answered himself, if he told her how he really felt, she’d probably flee for the hills, judging by past events. But he didn’t have the luxury to think about it further. He didn’t sense the attack until it was nearly upon him, and he didn’t dodge in time.

A ragged man rushed forward, stunning him with a fist to the nose. Oliver felt the cartilage crunch, but that only served to enrage him. He flung the man aside as blood poured down his face, but apparently he had an accomplice who grabbed Oliver from behind. With a twist of his body, he growled, grappling the would-be mugger and easily tossing him several yards down the street. That one started running as soon as he could stand; he’d expected a naive young gentleman, not a monster. But the man who’d broken his nose was either more determined or much more desperate. He rushed the vampire again.

This time Oliver was ready, and he was not in a merciful mood. He grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him about a foot into the air. “You should be more careful picking your targets,” Oliver snarled before lunging forward and sinking his fangs into the man’s neck. Blood spurted into his mouth, sending a surge of elation straight to his brain, followed by a strange burning aftertaste.

Oliver dropped his limp body after a few gulps, sealing the wound with drops of blood from his own finger. The man was stunned, but he would live, if his own kind didn’t do him in first. Then Oliver reached up to to feel his nose, already starting to heal, crookedly, of course. He gritted his teeth and wrenched it painfully back into place, sending another pulse of cold blood over his mouth.

“By the eight,” he groaned, straightening and shaking himself. “This damned city is going to kill me.” He started walking again, back toward the basilica this time. He needed to tell Rhys… something. It seemed very important. Maybe he’d bring her flowers. Yes, that was a good plan. Suddenly he felt sure that everything was going to work out. As a flood of euphoria made him grin, the diminishing voice of logic told him that something was not right.

*******************

Rhys wanted to yell after him, to call him a coward and remind him that running away was nothing new. But she knew that wouldn't be fair. After all, she would have done the same, given the chance, and she wasn't worried that he wouldn't come back. 

She fell back onto the bed with a sigh. She hated fighting with Oliver, and hated even more that she hated it. It shouldn’t matter to her… But it did. A lot. He meant more to her than she wanted to admit. Deep down, she realized that she wanted to tell him what he wanted to know, to open herself up and let him see all of her hopes and fears.

At the same time, the idea was terrifying. It wasn't his reaction she feared so much as not wanting to revisit some of those painful memories that were like knotted scars on her heart.

Meeting Raz had already reopened some of them, reminding her of the feelings she once bore for the khajit. Though what she felt for Oliver was entirely different. Another subject that was difficult to think about.

For a few hours she laid on the bed, pondering her relationship with Oliver. It couldn't hurt to tell him a few things about her past. She didn’t need to pull everything out of the drawer, just enough to keep him satisfied. Except Rhys knew he would never be satisfied.

Not that he was some sort of maniac. But he craved knowledge the way some people needed air, and he wanted to know her. If she let him, he would lay her bare. That it would be reciprocated, she had no doubt, if she asked. The idea shook her to her bones.

The sun went down and more hours passed. Rhys was starting to worry. Had he gotten into trouble or gotten lost? There might not be enough of her scent in the city to follow. Could he even teleport, if he didn't know the area?

“Asshole,” she growled, grabbing her weapons before leaving their quarters. She couldn’t shake the worry, so she would just have to look for him. And when she found him, she’d give him a piece of her mind.

It didn’t take her long to run into a crowd of people. They seemed to be listening to one of those funky machine bards that played horrendous off key music. Calling it music was doing it a favor. But this particular one was especially bad, with a hint of tortured cat paired with a pack of howling dogs. It was atrocious. She didn't even know how a machine could make a noise like that. 

“By the gods, don’t just stand there! Put the damn thing out of misery,” she muttered, squeezing through the mass to end the poor creature herself. It was obviously malfunctioning.

But when she finally pushed her way to the front and actually saw what was happening, she froze on the spot. Oliver was lying on the ground between two of the automatons, singing. The sound was so awful it took her several seconds to realize he was speaking Brethonic. More importantly, judging by the dried blood on his face and his hugely dilated pupils, he was absolutely shit-faced.

“Oh. My. Gods,” was all she was able to say.

“Mae'r wraig rwyf wrth fy modd mewn cariad â chath gyda chlustiau mor fawr â hwyl. Ni allaf helpu ond rhyfeddwch a fyddai hi'n hoffi imi well os cefais fy ngeni â chynffon,” he sang, grinning like he was having the time of his life and conducting the cacophony with his fingers. All Rhys could do was stare. He was obviously either drunk or high. Or both. But how was that possible? Vampires couldn't even drink.

“Mae gan y ferch rwyf wrth fy modd dafod fel chwip sy'n fy nghartrefi'n iawn i’m hesgyrn. Os mai hi'n unig y byddai'n ei ddefnyddio ar fy…” His brow furrowed for a moment like he'd forgotten what he was doing, but he continued undeterred. “cock… Byddwn i'n barod i gwrdd â manwydan.” She couldn't believe he’d just said ‘cock’ in public. 

Finally, he looked up at her with a boyish smile that would've been adorable in any other situation. “Hello. You’re lovely. Are you named after a flower too?” Several thoughts flashed through her mind at once. Number one being that he now knew her birth name and was obviously thinking about it, and number two, he didn't appear to recognize her. For a moment, she wondered what would happen if she just pretended not to know him and waked away.

People around her were starting to whisper and laugh. She couldn't leave him here; he would either get himself hurt, or hurt several other people by accident. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or punch him, that was a tempting thought. “For fuck’s sake, Oliver, ” she groaned, rubbing her face with her hands. “What the fuck did you do?”

The sound of her voice triggered something in him, and he blinked, his wide eyes focusing on her blearily. “Oh, Rhys, I was just talking about you.” He pushed himself up to sitting, swaying like a flag in a light breeze. “I was walking… The sun was setting, and it was very pretty but not as pretty as you. And then a man attacked me! Two men!” he said, waving his arms wildly. “He broke my nose!” he added, gesturing toward the blood.

She couldn’t even laugh. No amount of humor would make this better. “Amazing,” she replied in a horrified voice, not even able to muster sarcasm.

“Then… I pushed… no, I threw one guy down the street.” He mimed the action as if he was afraid she might not understand. “He ran away. But the other one came at me again! And I picked him up and bit him.” He made a jabbing gesture with two fingers and growled. “He tasted strange. So I left… I was going to buy you flowers… and then… I met these two guys,” he said, pointing to the mechanical bards. “Aren’t they great?” Oliver grinned like a child in a candy store.

Her fists clenched briefly in her hair before falling to her sides. Why was this shit always happening to her? What did she do to deserve this? “Didn’t your mother teach you not to eat from the fucking street?!” she growled as she grabbed him by the arm, hauling him up over her shoulder.

“I don’t remember. There wasn’t a street then,” he said dreamily. “Probably she told me not to eat off the ground, but I didn’t let him hit the ground so it doesn’t count.” She might have found the comment funny at another time, but right now, all she could feel was irritated.

She scowled at the bystanders still staring at them. “This party is over.” Oliver hung limply over her shoulder, his attempts to assist her in picking him up being completely futile. It wasn't that he was heavy, thanks to her werewolf strength. He was actually lighter than she expected, but his limbs were so cursedly long. Even now, his feet were dragging on the ground, and as she started to drag him off, a familiar sweet smell rose from his skin.

“Y'ffre have mercy! You’re high on fucking skooma?!” she hissed. “Also, please shut up about your vampire thing. People are still staring.”

He laughed, somewhat infuriatingly. “You seem angry. I’m sorry I’ve made you angry. I’m always doing that, aren’t I? I didn’t mean to get high on skooma,” he said with a melancholy sigh.

It was hard for her to contain her eye roll. A little more rolling and she was sure they would fly right out of her head. “Yes. You always do that,” she huffed, “One could wonder why I do this to myself.”

“You must like me then,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I like you. I think you’re fantastic,” he said, his arms waving listlessly behind her. “I could sing you another song.” He started humming tunelessly. How could anyone be so hopelessly bad at music? Having his useless, big body just kind of draped over her made it difficult to navigate where the fuck she was going, which did not improve her temper.

“Oliver, I swear if you start singing again, I will drop you in the gutter and bloody well leave you there! I can only bear so much,” she groaned. 

“You don’t like my singing?” he asked in a hurt voice. “Do you like poetry? I’ve been trying to write you a poem, but I didn’t think you would like it for some reason. About how your eyes glow like lanterns and flowers blooming in the moonlight.” He sighed. It was almost cute, but only almost.

She didn’t actually know how she managed to get him all the way to their quarters, but when she finally reached their room she tossed the disaster vampire onto the bed and sunk onto a chair. Somehow, she had to get him off this skooma high, but she had no idea what to do.


	7. The Perils of Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of the rest of their time in Clockwork City, saving Oliver from his overdose, couples bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve been reading you may have noticed that this contains things that used to be in the last chapter. That’s because the next chapter was going to end up being 10K long so I decided to make some adjustments.

It seemed like both a very short and very long time later that she tossed him into a bed. He pulled the pillow against his face and breathed in a strange mixture of metal and Rhys that was oddly alluring. “I like this bed. I would like it better if you were in it,” he murmured.

Rhys gave him a very exhausted look. “Trust me, I’d be in that bed right now but I prefer not to shag people who are high off their gourd,” she scoffed. “Besides, you smell like a gutter… gods know where you’ve been.” 

Oliver stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout, but in truth the euphoria was starting to fade. He could feel his heart beating in an almost human manner, which was alarming on several levels. “I don’t feel at all well,” he said. “Why is it so warm in here?”

She was going through his satchel with a somewhat frantic air, and he might have asked what she was looking for, but she looked up at him in alarm. She dropped the bag, moving over to press her hand to his forehead. Her hand didn't feel warm, and the part of his brain that hadn’t turned to wet cotton knew that this was a bad thing.“Fuck,” she murmured, “You’re burning up.” 

She chewed her lip in thought. “How do you even process drugs? Can you?” she asked, a little helplessly.

Her question caught his attention. “I don’t know. If I drink from drunk people it usually makes me sleepy for a while and then goes away. Once I drank from someone who’d been poisoned,” he said, his brow furrowing. “I threw up.”

She frowned. “Maybe you can’t process skooma, so your body is reacting to it like poison, like a cat with bosmer herb tobacco,” she murmured. “Oliver, what happens when you drink werewolf blood?”

He tried to gather his thoughts. “I’ve never done it before. I know it will make me sick…” He could almost feel the threads of an idea connecting together, but it was like trying to grasp mist. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well,” she sat down next to him. She pulled his back against her chest and wrapped one arm around his neck, pressing her wrist to his lips. “Bite me or I’ll bite you. Trust me I’ll enjoy this more way more than you will,” she said in a voice that didn't allow for much argument.

“I can’t,” he said, shuddering. “It will hurt you.” It was difficult to piece together the words of his objections when he felt like he was burning to death in slow motion. “Vampires are… venomous. I use mind control to manage it… the pain. I’m not sure if I can.”

He turned to face her. “You have to look into my eyes. You have to let me in.” Even through his discomfort and confusion he had the thought that this was a difficult thing to ask of her. It would only reveal her surface thoughts, but he was hardly in any shape to offer reassurance.

She tensed and drew back. “Let you… In?  Into my brain?” she asked with wide eyes. He was not particularly surprised by her reaction, what little of him was able to feel emotions at all. Her lips were cool against his forehead, and blood was pounding in his ears. He was floating in a thunderstorm.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re as high as the Red Mountain… no, the bloody floating rock over Vivec City. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you into my head.”

Time passed. He was faintly aware of her doing something near the basin. Something cold was pressed into his hands. A cup. He needed to drink it. It was blood, but it smelled _wrong_. However, he thought he might be dying or at least on his way to something worse than what was happening now. Somehow he managed to lift it to his lips.

It tasted delicious, spicy and warm like an exotic summer. He gulped it down and wanted more. For about half a minute. His stomach roiled, and a sudden spike of clarity made him sit up. “I’m going to be sick,” he rasped, and then he was in such a hurry to get out of bed that he fell onto the floor.

Rhys jumped up and hauled him upright, dragging him in the direction of the basin in the corner. They made it just in time for him to throw up what felt like all the blood he’d ever drank. His arms shook as he braced himself on his hands. 

“Just get it all out,” Rhys murmured from somewhere behind him. As the poison left his system, he became dimly aware that she was holding back his hair and rubbing his back while he vomited. In his confused emotional state, it felt like a revelation from the gods themselves. Of course she cared about him. He’d been foolish to worry.

Finally, it was over. He felt drained and limp, but his mind was clear. “Could you get me one of the large blood potions from my bag?” he asked, his voice hoarse and shaking. 

“Thank Y’ffre that worked,” Rhys said, moving briefly away from his side. In this situation, he could not be anything but glad she was a werewolf. Not only because she may have saved him from a fatal skooma overdose. As thirsty as he was now, he would be dangerous to a normal mortal.

She pressed the bottle into his hands, and he drank it down without even tasting it. The potion was steadying; he no longer felt like he was teetering on the razor edge of madness from thirst, though fatigue weighed him down as surely as a coat made of lead. But Rhys started wiping his face with warm water, as gently as if he were a child, and part of him wondered if he had actually died and gone to the pleasant afterlife the priestess of Mara had always talked about when he was small. Her voice called him back to what he hoped was reality.

“You’re back down on earth again now?” she asked with a small smile.

“As far as I can tell,” he said weakly. “It was a good idea, to have me drink your blood. I’m not sure what would have happened, otherwise. So, thank you,” he said, meeting her eyes. He felt like he’d forgotten how luminous they were.

“You can thank me tomorrow,” she said, leading him to the bed, helping him out of his boots and jacket and shirt. He felt incapable of resisting, even if he had wanted to. He drank the second potion she gave him and laid down next to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She was warm and soft and lovely, and the scent of green growing things surrounded him as he breathed in. “Gods, I love you,” he murmured drowsily. Her heartbeat thudded against his ear like a lullaby. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so… safe. It was a strange feeling, but he was too tired to examine further. A moment later, he was asleep.

******************

Rhys held him close, and as he rested his head against her chest, she buried her face in his hair. Despite what she'd told him before, he smelled mostly like himself, cold earth and iron, with a hint of pine forest. She breathed him in like she was starved of oxygen, letting herself be soothed by the reassurance that he was still here, as healthy and whole as a vampire could be. Now that the worst was over, she shivered at the thought that she could have lost him to something so… stupid as an ambush by hooligans.

His words made her heart stutter. Love…. He couldn't know what he was saying, she told herself. After almost dying and being half out of his mind with skooma, it was probably fatigue and lingering trauma making him say that.

Even so, her stomach was filled with a strange fluttering sensation. She’d never been loved. Not like this.

The last time she had loved…

She had been soulless then. Her feelings for Razum’dar had been strong enough to sweep her away, and yet she had been detached from it somehow, like watching through a glass window. This was different. Sometimes when she looked at Oliver, she could hardly breathe for the strength of her affection, but rather then feeling adrift in a sea of emotion, she felt grounded by his presence, a tree growing into rich soil.

She ran her fingers through his hair and down his back just to feel his skin, and held him even tighter, “What are you doing to me?” she whispered into the darkness, pressing a kiss to his brow. He didn't stir, though she thought his lips might have curved slightly into an instinctual smile. 

Rhys stayed awake through the night, partly out of worry that he would be sick again and need her help, and partly just unwilling to let go of this peaceful moment. When the sun started to rise, and the first rays of light poked into their room she finally let her eyes close, but her arms remained tightly wrapped around her lover.

****************

It was evening when he woke, judging by the golden-red hues to the light seeping through the curtain. All of his joints ached and his head throbbed. It had been 270 years since he had felt this awful, physically, but otherwise… Rhys was still holding him tight against her, her breath stirring his hair. His chest constricted painfully. He loved her, there was no point denying it. It didn’t take a genius to realize that navigating a long-term relationship with Rhys would be challenging, but he was certainly willing. And he thought maybe she was too, even if she didn’t quite know it yet.

He let himself luxuriate in this feeling of peace for several long minutes, knowing it couldn’t last. They had things to do after all. He leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.

Rhys stirred and rolled onto her back, stretching with a loud groan before snuggling back into the pillow, cracking one luminous eye to peer at him critically, “You look like shit,” she said, her voice a little husky from sleep. “How are you feeling?”

He snorted. “Thank you for the compliment. I feel like I’ve been thrashed by a giant, and I’m in dire need of a bath, but considering what happened yesterday, it could be worse.”

The corner of her mouth curved up, and she reached out to touch his forehead. Whatever she found must have pleased her because she let out a relieved sigh and turned her attention to her wrist, to the the new line of silver scar marking where she’d cut herself the night before.

She turned it into the light, humming in thought. “Seems like we’re even now. You spilled blood for me. I spilled mine for you.”

He took her hand, pressing his lips to the mark. “I suppose that’s true,” he said. “But as you’ve already saved my life twice, I don’t think I want to keep score. I’d very quickly find myself in debt beyond my ability to repay,” he said with a half-smile. “Although I would like to try and make it up to you. I don’t remember everything that happened, but I do remember that you were much gentler with me than I probably deserved.”

She chuckled and yawned before rolling towards him again. “You were very close to getting your ass whooped. More than once, I considered just dropping you next to the badly tuned robots you seemed to like so much. You should never sing, ever again,” she said, shaking her head. “You were an absolute disaster. If I'd been any less worried I would have recorded it.”

He winced. “You don’t know how heartbroken I was as a child to be told I had no musical talent whatsoever. It is some comfort to know that the automatons are equally bad.” It still made him sad. He couldn’t even play an instrument, like there was some sort of barrier between him and even the barest understanding of music. And apparently he’d not only embarrassed himself in front of Rhys, but the entire town. It was a good thing he wasn’t planning on socializing. 

“Well… one can’t be good at everything,” she teased, “but you did impress me. At first, I thought there was an animal dying in horrible agony. You can imagine my surprise to find you on the pile.”

He groaned at her less than flattering description of his un-talent. “If you’re quite through humiliating me… that is why I never usually sing in public.” Rhys kissed his cheek, still grinning, and he sighed. “Not even the gods themselves would blame you for leaving me, so I’m thankful you did not.”

She wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer and resting her head in his chest. “You gave me a good scare. I hope you learned your lesson about eating random people off the street, dummy.”

“It was stupid of me. I only thought to teach him a lesson for breaking my nose, but I should have considered that he might be high. Although, I’m still astounded that skooma had any effect on me at all. I can’t believe people do that to themselves for fun,” he said, scowling. At the very least, she wasn’t too angry to cuddle against him, a fact which he intended to relish. He wrapped both of his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. 

Rhys sighed and closed her eyes. “Anyway, I don’t think you can make up for me dragging your high ass through the city while you hollered incoherently in your sneezy language. Well… except for the word cock,” she added with a hint of a smile.

He wrinkled his nose. What had he been singing? “You could let me try,” he murmured, kissing the tip of her ear. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone to spoil.”

She pushed herself up on an elbow, arching an eyebrow at his suggestion. “Listen, my sweet, if your idea of spoiling involves sexual favors, I’m afraid I have to tell you that I saw you throw up several gallons of blood last night while I held your hair… Not very sexy.”

“I was planning to take a bath first,” he huffed, “But I can spoil you in other besides screwing you senseless.” His eyes gleamed with anticipation at the thought. “I suspect you will find most traditional courting gifts obnoxious,” he added with a playful grin. “But if you ever want to be inundated with flowers, be sure to let me know.”

She chuckled, tugging playfully on a lock of his hair. “I don't doubt it, but I’d prefer you to leave the flowers alive. I will never understand the need for people to pluck flowers and kill them. If you find something beautiful, why kill it? But maybe that’s just my upbringing. My mother loved flowers. It’s why she gave me this ridiculous name. Amarhyllis…the forest in her eyes and the fire in her hair. That’s what she said about me. She was convinced I was kissed by Y'ffre herself, like most mothers, I guess.”

“People want to possess such beauty,” he said with an arched eyebrow. “Not everyone has the luxury of gardening. But I have to say I agree with your mother.” He grinned up her, reaching up to let her hair fall through his fingers. “My fiery cariad,” he murmured.

Rhys scowled at him, though there was a light in her eyes that wasn't exactly angry. “Great. First you make my name sound like cheese, now you call me a chariot? If you call me pig or cow next I’ll punch you.” 

“That is a term of endearment not at all related to animals or transportation,” he said, his eyes crinkling with humor. 

She arched her eyebrow skeptically, but kissed his forehead before flopping down on her back again, pulling his head to rest on her chest again. Silence reigned for a few moments before she spoke. “It wasn't only your fault, Oliver. I should have guessed that you might jump to conclusions after meeting Razum’dar like that,” she began hesitantly, and he knew she was having difficulty choosing her words. “Raz was, and still is… I think, a trusted, loyal, and dear friend. He found me and took me under his wing. Well… in the beginning, he was mostly using me as an asset, but he noticed my potential and introduced me to the Queen, which led to me joining the Queen’s Eyes. I was his right hand, and he was Ayrenn’s.

Rhys’s chest made a pleasing pillow, and not just because her breasts were soft, though they certainly were that. He breathed in her scent, listening to the subtle music of her heartbeat, but her words had captured the greater part of his attention, and he waited for her to gather her thoughts again.

“We worked together closely, him and I, until we fit together like clockwork. I was young. I fell for him,” she said, her voice laced with pain. “After a mission that almost cost his life and my sanity I told him how I felt, but… He didn’t want me.” she finished, pressing a kiss to Oliver’s hair. “There is no need to be on edge because of him. Razum’dar was never my lover.”

Oliver let out a sigh. It made a great deal of sense, like disparate pieces of the puzzle of Rhys finally fitting together. “You don’t know how embarrassing it is to admit that I was jealous. But I wasn’t bothered that he might have been your lover,” he said quietly. “I may be an idiot, but I’m not that much of a hypocrite. I was bothered by the fact that he knew you much better than I do, and you still seemed to care for him, despite the fact that he was utterly obnoxious,” he added with an eye roll. “The fact that he rejected you only confirms my suspicions that he is a complete buffoon.”

She sighed at his confession. “He doesn’t know me better than you,” she replied softly, “He knows Amarhyllis, eye of the queen. He doesn’t know Rhys the assassin. I was different then… A lot more whole than I am now.” He wasn't sure how to feel about that. He wanted to know her whole self, and he wanted to help her find whatever that was, even while wishing to reassure her that she was not as broken as she believed.

“Anyway, he’s not a buffoon,” she continued, “His obnoxioisness is one weapon in his arsenal. Raz is smart… probably smarter than is good for him,” Rhys added in a scolding tone. “And yes…I still care for him, on one way or another. But he was at my side then. Always. He was with me when a werewolf ripped a chunk out of my side, he was at my side when my first transformation broke and reformed my bones over and over again, and when they chained me up it was him holding the chain. It is not his fault that he loved the queen instead of me. I cannot blame him for that.”

Oliver wrinkled his nose, trying not to be annoyed by her description of Raz. He did believe her assurance that he had nothing to worry about; now it was only a lingering grudge. It didn’t help that he now knew the khajit had hurt Rhys in the past, but if she could forgive him, Oliver would do his best. “I am not sure I will ever share your good opinion of Razum’dar, but my behavior was still unfair and ridiculous. I am sorry. I shouldn’t have left either, but that is…” 

He took a deep, steadying breath. If she was going to reveal painful things from her past, he could only follow suit, but even knowing that he should and that it was important didn’t make it easier. “It is a habit, borne out of caution, I suppose. When I was newly made a vampire, before I even knew what I was, I argued with my family.” The fragments of memory pressed against his skull, the blood and the screams. “I lost myself. I killed them. I can’t let that happen again,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Her arms tightened around him, like she would shield him from his memories with her own body. “You’re older now. Stronger. You're always under control,” she reminded him. “And I am not a fragile human. Even against a 300 year old vampire, I'm not exactly helpless.”

He knew she was right, and furthermore, the past could not be changed, he knew, but Rhys was real and alive in the present. An opportunity to begin again. “You have more faith in me than I do in myself,” he said grimly. “Though it is true that you are much less likely to be killed by accident, which is comforting.” He sighed. “In the future, I will try to remember that. I don’t like arguing with you, but I suppose that is how civilized adults settle their disagreements.”

“I don't know about civilized,” she says, grinning and kissing his cheek, but then she sighed. “Shortly after I was turned, Raz and I went to the village where I was born. It only took one look and they knew,” she said, her voice turning hollow. “I had broken the Green Pact. I was an Outsider. My parents wouldn’t even look at me. I know it's not the same thing… but I understand that guilt. That loss. Never being able to go home again.” 

Her eyes were shining with unshed tears, and he couldn't think of anything to say. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I am sorry. I can't imagine how difficult that must be. For the most part, I at least am not shunned from human society, as long as I behave myself in public.”

“I haven't been back in more than ten years. I miss them so much,” she whispered and her voice was raw with emotion.

He pulled her closer, kissing her hair. There was nothing he could do to give her back what she had lost, which was frustrating. “You are always welcome where I am, if it makes you feel any better.”

*****************

Days passed like a dream. She showed Oliver the city, just like she promised, and got vicarious pleasure out of his enjoyment of the many libraries and bookstores. He did try to restrain himself for her sake, she thought, and took her to restaurants and cafes and gardens, for long walks under the artificial sun and moon. And each time she slept, it was cradled in the circle of his arms.

It was the kind of normal life she had never though she was capable of, that she'd been so sure was impossible that she convinced herself she'd never wanted it in the first place. She was happy, whenever she didn't let herself think about it, but the looming feeling that something terrible was about to happen didn’t leave her, haunting her at night as invisible eyes stalked her sleep.

Sotha Sil finally summoned them, and her stomach roiled with anxiety about what might be revealed. Oliver seemed more curious than troubled, and she tried to latch on to his calm demeanor like a rock in the middle of the ocean. When they stepped into the top of the tower, the dunmer god was standing over a new metal creation, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Ah…I was expecting you, Vestige,” he said in his silken voice. “I have unpuzzled your puzzle.” He produced a folio of papers, which Rhys handed to Oliver. He flipped it open immediately, scanning the information with narrowed eyes.

“I advise you to be cautious,” Sotha Sil said, his hands folded into front of his chest. “There is something brewing on the horizon which may swallow the whole world. All of my calculations indicate that you both have a key role to play.” Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and it felt like a cold hand gripping her soul.

Oliver closed the file, frowning, “It seems the base of Mephala’s operations is in one of those old pyramids outside Blackrose. They’re running experiments on every vampire and werewolf they can catch.” He shuddered and slipped the file inside his jacket.

Sotha Sil nodded. “Whatever Mephala’s aims, the capture of two unusual and powerful specimens such as yourselves would undoubtedly be a coup.”

Rhys wasn't sure she liked being called a specimen. “Thank you for your help,” she finally managed to say. “I will try not to be eaten by a spider.”

“Thank you, Lord Seth, for the information,” Oliver said as she pulled him out of the room and outside. Rhys stayed silent as they moved through the basilica, her thoughts spinning. The sunlight didn't entirely dispel the chill in her bones, but after a few deep breaths, the feeling of being hunted eased enough for her to stop and lean against a wall near the fountain in the central plaza.

Oliver sighed, running a hand over his hair as he turned to her. “Well, do you have any thoughts? It seems a rather larger problem than we can handle on our own, but perhaps we could do some reconnaissance while waiting for allies. The Psijic Order might be willing to offer some assistance, but gods only know how long that could take.”

Thoughts? Right now, her brain was mostly occupied by the doom hovering over her head like the mace of Molag Bal himself. Sotha Sil rarely spoke clear warnings. He rarely spoke clear anything.

She looked up at Oliver to answer, and was struck by the way the sun caught in his hair, bringing out tones of blue and purple like a raven’s wing, his eyes bright as rubies. Her eyes travelled over his so familiar face, and her heart suddenly clenched painfully in her chest. He had become so dear to her that the thought of being alone again was almost unnatural.

Only the gods knew what was ahead of them, but she didn't have to be a deity to know that it wasn’t good. Without questioning the impulse, she pulled him down for a tender kiss, not caring if anyone saw them or took offense. 

He responded avidly, pulling her tight against him, but he didn't fail to notice her fear. He cupped her cheek in his hand, stroking it with his thumb. “You seem worried, cariad. More than I expected, I mean. Is there something in particular bothering you?”

She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing as she allowed herself a moment to just feel him, his arms tight around her, the whoosh of air in his lungs, the slow, slow beat of his heart. He was real and hers, she had to keep reminding herself. “Something is coming. My dreams have been trying to warn me; I can feel it in my gut. The fact that even Sotha Sil is worried only proves my point. This is going to be a terrible storm,” she whispered. “I’ve ridden out some bad ones before, but it didn't matter because I had nothing to lose…”

But now she did. She had everything to lose. The realization almost knocked the breath out of her. Oliver was not only important to her… he was everything. Losing him would break her beyond repair.

She knew he understood by the way his face went soft all around his eyes, all the words she couldn’t bear to say reflected in his expression. “We will just have to be careful and weather this storm together,” he said, pressing his lips to her temple.

Even that only eased her anxiety a fraction. She tried to give him a smile as she pulled away, but she knew she was doing a bad job hiding the fear gnawing at her guts. “I think you’re right. We should contact the magic monks. Make it clear they have no time to dally around,” she said, her voice still rough with emotion.

“I’ll send the Psijics a message this evening,” he agreed. “Celarus should see how dangerous this is.” She nodded, drawing a deep breath through her nose. A million different aromas flickered through past her senses, but one particular smell sparked an idea.

“I have a suggestion… though you have to promise me not to go on another skooma bender,” she said. “Razum’dar is still in the city. He's already investigating Mephala, I'm sure of it. If we combined forces, we could have all the backup we needed in less than a week.” Probably. He could usually be counted on, but if politics got involved…

Oliver wrinkled his nose. “I never want that substance anywhere near me again. But if you trust Razum’Dar, it certainly can’t hurt to have Dominion assistance. They might even have information that we do not. I’ll be on my best behavior.” She could tell by his expression that he didn't like the idea, but he also trusted her judgement, which was gratifying.

“Razum’dar should be close by,” she said. “If my nose isn't playing tricks on me, he’s in one of the taverns in the east district.”

“You’re probably better at long-range tracking than I, so I will let you lead the way.”

Rhys let out a shaking breath. Having a plan made her feel a little better, more in control. As she took the first step toward the east, she grabbed Oliver’s hand and gripped it tight. It was hard for her to give voice to the emotions raging inside her. Unlike her lover, she wasn't capable of simply accepting these intense new feelings as a part of her everyday life, but this small gesture was one way she could show him how much he meant to her.

Following Razum’dar’s familiar scent led them exactly where she'd expected. They stepped into a dingy tavern, the scent of alcohol and people pressing on her senses and the many voices blurring into a busy hum like a hive full of drunken bees. Raz was sitting at the bar talking to an altmer next to him, the same one who'd knocked Oliver over when they’d entered the city. If either of them recognized each other, they gave no sign.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped towards them and took the cup out of Razum’dar’s hand, downing the ale in one gulp and slamming it back onto the counter.

The khajit only smirked, and waved to bartender for a refill. “If you wished to drink with good old Raz you could have warned this one first,” he said with a chuckle. “Raz doesn’t know if this bar stocks enough ale for kitten’s appetite.”


	8. Tragic backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk to Razum’dar and travel to Blackrose. Before their upcoming encounter with Mephala’s cult, they talk about the past and the future.

Oliver could tell his words hadn’t done much to ease her mind. But she took a deep breath as she stepped out of his embrace and took his hand. Her small warm fingers intertwined with his, and it felt like an important moment in the midst of chaos. He squeezed her hand and she forged ahead.

The tavern she led them to was a busy one, and the hum of voices and hearts was like sandpaper to his ears, but he forced himself to ignore it, focusing instead on Rhys, her hand and heartbeat. And there was Razum’dar.

Oliver blew out a deep breath as they approached, arranging his features into something he hope approached polite nonchalance. Then Rhys stole the khajit’s drink. Oliver smirked, shaking his head slightly. Apparently that was what passed for a greeting between them because Raz only ordered more drinks. There seemed to be, at the moment, no reason for Oliver to say anything, which was just fine with him. It gave him more time to get used to the situation.

Raz leaned back against the counter and gave Rhys a calculating look. “Raz must admit it is surprising to see you here… did you miss this one so much?” he teased, but his eyes were sharp.

“We need to talk. In private,” she said, taking the drink he offered her. “I know you’re looking into what killed your men. You must be. I know you, Raz.”

His ears stood straight up, his expression turning serious. “This one is listening,” he said.

“Your people were murdered by a cult of Mephala who is conducting experiments on vampires and werewolves. We were able to find their base, but last time we dealt with them, we barely made it out alive.” Rhys explained.

Razum'dar didn't speak at first, eyeing her carefully as he considered. Oliver watched the exchange with his arms crossed over his chest. “The nexus of Mephala’s operations appears to be outside Blackrose, in one of those ruined ziggurats,” he added to Rhys’s explanation. “For whatever reason, this cult seems unusually interested in the both of us, so we have a personal stake in interfering with their designs, but it’s a rather big job for just two people.”

The khajit smirked in satisfaction. “So the Red Fury of the Dominion is asking good old Raz for help. This one should have put money on that! Raz would be a rich man now!”

Rhys groaned, “Raz, for the love of Sithis, did you have to say that out loud?!”

Oliver turned to her in astonishment. “The Red Fury was you all along?! You were the bane of the Covenant’s existence during the whole Planemeld incident. I spent days trying to figure out how to keep you at bay. The soldiers had nightmares. They told the recruits you would eat them for breakfast. Now I know it was true!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. The plans she had ruined... the migraines she had caused... Actually, it made quite a bit of sense.

Razum’dar found this reaction amusing. “Oh yes! Amarhyllis of Valenwood, the Red Fury and Eye of the Queen! Admired and feared! A nightmare to everyone who dared to oppose her! The essence of terrefying beauty,” Raz said, waving his claws dramatically. 

“Indeed,” Oliver agreed, which was certainly never something he thought he’d be doing. “Though the reports mostly emphasized the terror, which I feel is a bit unfair.”

“You were right to fear her! She was fearless in battle, devouring-”

“Oh for fucks’ sake! I never devoured anyone!” Rhys said, interrupting her old friend and punching his arm. “All this nonsense only got around cause you kept telling those absurd stories!” She turned to Oliver, shaking her head, “I never ate anyone for breakfast!”

“This one saw on several occasions how you ripped limbs off soldiers with your bare hands,” Raz chimed in, obviously having a grand time.

“That doesn't mean I ate them, does it? I'm pretty sure I was stopping them from stabbing you in the face!” she hissed.

“I know you didn’t really eat them,” he said with a crooked smile, repressing the urge to tug playfully on one of he curls. He didn’t think she’d appreciate it here, though her eyes gleamed in anticipation. It was a bit strange to think that he was now on intimate terms with the woman who’d inspired so many of the Covenant’s nightmares. Not that loyalty to his birthplace had ever been his primary motivation. “Though that didn’t stop the soldiers from believing that was the case.”

Raz looked him over with something new in his eyes. Curiosity, perhaps. “So you tried to shield your poor, scared soldiers from our little kitten? Considering everything I know she got up to, you must not have been that successful.”

“I was successful enough, though that wasn’t my primary job. I was mostly providing magical research and intel, and many of the soldiers were reluctant to take strategical advice from the resident bookworm,” Oliver said, thinking of one person in particular.

“Can you really blame them? Who’d want to listen to a stuffy old know it all?” Rhys said, grinning at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, who indeed? Because we all know wisdom is only attained at the end of a sword. Clearly my hundreds of years of study were a complete waste of time. However, we’re getting off the subject.” Rhys clearly hadn't enjoyed having that part of her last discussed so openly. He decided to move the conversation along. “Will the Dominion be willing to assist us? I also plan on contacting the Psijic Order.”

Raz was silent, contemplating. “Yes,” he said finally. “This one will assist. The sooner we can root out the rot trying to set foot in Nirn the better. Raz will meet you there in about a week.”

Rhys sighed in relief, which Oliver shared. As much as he dreaded the political wrangling that was sure to follow, he knew they needed backup. It was their best chance of coming through this ordeal intact, and now, as Rhys took his hand again, he was reminded of how much he had to look forward to. How much he could lose. There was no point in being incautious.

********************************

Rhys thanked Raz and said goodbye before taking Oliver’s hand again and leading him outside, out of the suffocating smell and noise of the tavern. But once they were out in the sunlight again, her relief faded. Anxiety overwhelmed her so fast it took her several seconds to realize the source.

It was only logical that she and Oliver had both been involved in the war. The Covenant would have been foolish not to recruit him, and she, well, she’d hardly had a choice. And of course, in the beginning, they would've been on different sides. High Rock was practically on the other side of the world from where she was born. But now, the truth reared its ugly head. What if she had hurt people he cared about? 

She stopped him in a little alcove near a cluster of empty market stalls. “Oliver, me being the Red Fury, is that… I don’t know… okay?” she asked quietly.

He didn't hesitate to pull her close with his free arm, bringing her hand to his mouth and pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. It was ridiculous, how that made her heart beat faster. “How could I possibly hold that against you? It was a time of war. Everyone was frightened. I am sure that you only did what you believed was necessary to protect your home and people, just as I did. And in the end, weren’t we all on the same side?”

Rhys sighed and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. She couldn't answer. Somehow she felt like a liar. What would he say once he found out that she had been a traitor to all sides?

It took a few moments to wrestle down her own guilt, but then she pulled away and kissed him gently. "We should waste no time. Let's contact the magic monks and then get moving. We need to restock our potions too,” she said, tucking herself right under his arm so he could place it around her shoulders. "It's been a while since I've been in Blackmarsh. Let's hope we make it out alive."

********************

It took three days to receive an answer from the Psijic Order, which, judging by their usual speed, was practically record time. Celarus was troubled by the news of Mephala’s continued activity and confessed he believed that Nocturnal might also be involved. The Order would send several mages to assist within the week.

With that settled, Oliver contacted the Mages’ Guild in Blackrose. He had never been there personally, but he was familiar with the head of their library, Swims-in-Ink, who met them the moment they emerged from the Guild teleport. Rhys had no problem letting Oliver handle the formalities. She'd worked closely with the mages during her time with the Ebonheart Pact, but she doubted anyone would recognize her. They never had before.

At least the librarian seemed happy to see them. “Mr. Thorne, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. You and your associate are welcome in the Guild, of course.”

“Rhys of Valenwood is my partner. We’ll be doing some investigation in ruins to the north of here,” he said, shaking the argonian’s hand.

“Yes. There’s a room prepared for you on the top floor, and I’ve put the maps you requested on the desk, as well as the potions.”

“Thank you. We may be here for several weeks, depending on what we find. I appreciate the hospitality on such short notice.” With that, they made their way up to their room, which was large and comfortable, the many windows covered in heavy curtains. Oliver’s reputation tended to get them good accommodations, at least within the Mages’ Guild, which was an advantage she was only now beginning to appreciate.

Oliver went to the desk as if it had magnetic power, dropping his bag and jacket over the back of his chair. He was, she had discovered, a creature of habit in many ways. Not that she minded. The familiarity was soothing. She, meanwhile, dropped her pack onto the second best table and went to one of the windows on the other side of the room, so as not to put him in danger, and pulled the thick curtain open just enough for her to see outside and feel the sun on her skin. 

Blackmarsh always made her a little nostalgic. Sometimes the scents and sounds of the swamp were close enough to Valenwood that if she closed her eyes she could imagine her mother’s voice on the air. The view from the window was excellent; she could see a good few miles even in the afternoon light.

“Well, here we are,” he said from the center of the room where he was occupied in rolling up his sleeves. There was something almost unfairly attractive about it. “Step one of this operation was successful. I thought we’d leave for the ruins tomorrow, but unfortunately I don’t know enough about the area to guide the teleport. We’ll have to walk, like normal people.”

“I don’t mind walking, though we should consider getting mounts. Should we meet a Wamasu, and we will, we need to be quick. I’d rather not getting chewed up before we even reach the blasted temple,” she said, turning back to the window to enjoy the feeling of the sun in her face a bit longer. Sometimes, she felt sorry for Oliver missing this particular sensation, but nighttime did have its own benefits.

“I have very little experience with riding animals,” he replied. “So I will leave those arrangements up to you. My only concern is whether they will be hindered by our traveling primarily at night. And also I assume we’ll have to leave them behind at some point when we reach the ruins.”

“You do have a point. Walking it is then,” she said, shrugging. The exercise wasn't what bothered her, or even the mud. It was just that there were a lot of swamp monsters that were faster than werewolves. But he was right. Even riding guars weren't really nocturnal.

He watched her in the window with an expression of patient contentment like she was a book he was reading. Except for rare occasions which almost always involved her, Oliver was never in a hurry. “What are you planning to do until tomorrow?” she asked. Even they couldn't sleep that long.

“We could look over these maps and plan out our route,” he said. She wrinkled her nose. Oliver loved maps almost as much as he loved books. If she didn't intervene, he'd be at it for hours. But his mouth turned up at the corners. “Or you could come over here and kiss me.”

She couldn't help smiling in return. “Kiss you? My, what inappropriate behavior for a partnership,” she said, chuckling.

“I wouldn’t want to refer to you in a way which trivializes your importance,” he said with a playful arch of his eyebrow. Taking advantage of her werewolf speed, she crossed the room in the blink of an eye and stood on her tiptoes, just barely brushing her lips against his.

“There, you have your kiss… what now?” she asked, her golden eyes gleaming with mishief. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again more thoroughly, drawing her lower lip between his teeth. She melted into his embrace, letting her eyes fall closed, for the moment just enjoying being held. She had once said she didn't mind rough handling, but some part of her had come to cherish his gentleness. Not that he was against a little wildness in their play either, but it was not in his nature to enjoy causing pain, one of those unexpected things about him that she now adored.

“I have several ideas,” he murmured, “And all of them involve more kissing and less clothing.” He moved his mouth to her neck, brushing his lips over her skin. She laughed low in her throat, and her fingers slid over his ribs to unbutton his shirt. He leaned his forehead against hers, sighing. When his shirt was on the floor, she let her hands slide over the cool skin of his back before pulling away to remove her own armor. It didn't take long, and he'd been so distracted watching her that he'd only managed to remove his shoes. 

She smiled and picked his up shirt from the floor. When she slipped it over her shoulders, he gave her that crooked smile that always made her heart turn over. She shook her head and flopped down on the bed, patting the spot beside her.

“As much as I would love you fuck you until you forget your own name, I don’t think that would be wise,” she said with regret. “I don’t want either of us to be sore. Even a hint of slowness could cost us.” She wouldn’t risk losing him. Not ever. 

“My goodness, you’re rather cautious this evening,” he said, concern furrowing his brow as he finished undressing. He was right, of course. She was probably overdoing it, and part of her would have preferred to lose herself in pleasure rather than think about tomorrow. But her dreams had only grown more terrifying. She wouldn't take the chance that this night would be their last.

“Come here and hold me. Tell me stories…,” she asked softly. She wasn’t sure what had made her say it, but she hoped it would help stave off the gnawing fear of what was to come.

He settled beside her, pulling her close against him, softly kissing her shoulder. It was a warm night, and his cool skin was a welcome respite. When he held her like this, she felt so safe… like she was finally home. 

“I suspect you aren’t looking for a fairy tale. What kind of story do you want to hear?” He pressed his nose into her hair, and she knew he was breathing her in, just the way she did for him, taking in his cold scent as she turned and wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him softly, tenderly caressing his cheek. Why did she feel like this was her last chance?

“Tell me about little Oliver,” she said with a smile. “What were you like? I’ll tell you about little Amaryhllis in turn.”

*******************

If he’d had any defenses left against her, they would’ve shattered at the look she gave him as she stroked his cheek. “Cariad,” he murmured, his heart doing strange things in his chest.

“Cariad,” she repeated in a whisper, her tongue tripping over the unfamiliar syllables. Usually she teased him about his occasional use of his native tongue, but now she smiled. “One day, you have to tell me what that means.” He opened his mouth but she pressed her fingers to his lips. “No. After…”

There was still so much fear in her eyes, and he decided not to press the issue. He smiled against her fingers. “Very well. You know I will hold you to that promise. Now, little Oliver… You mean when I was a boy? I’ll have to see what I can remember.”

He settled his arms securely around her, stroking her hair with one hand, and closed his eyes to let himself think more clearly. “You already know I was born in Camlorn, before there was anything there but a village. It wasn’t called Camlorn then; the Imperials called it Camlodunum, but the locals had a different name… something about Mara in Brethonic, I think, as there was a temple there.”

“Anyway, my father was a blacksmith, but my mother’s parents owned a huge farm outside the village… an apple orchard, and that’s where I grew up. That was part of their marriage contract, you see, that they would keep the orchard going, something my father never stopped being bitter over. I suppose I was a bit spoiled. My mother was often ill, and when I was very young I was allowed to run wild with nothing but a couple of monstrous hounds to accompany me, and every evening one of the farmhands would have to catch me for supper. I suppose they must’ve drawn straws.” He smiled, remembering the trouble he gave them.

“My mother, and her mother and grandmother, and on and on, were all Seers, which is partly why she was unwell. The visions would keep her awake all night. When I was seven, I began to show signs that I had inherited this gift, and it was rare for a male, for whatever reason, which only proved to my father that I was a useless excuse for a son. So they brought in a priestess of Mara to tutor me at that point, and once I stopped trying to escape from my lessons, I actually enjoyed them. My mother was insistent that I learn to control my Gift as she had not been allowed to, so that I could live a full life without being plagued by visions.”

“A seer…” she murmured. “Do you still have visions? Could you use this gift if you wanted to?”

He shuddered at the thought. “I’m not sure. I’ve blocked my Sight for such a long time, I suppose the power might have atrophied. But after so long, I’m afraid it’s more likely that I would be overwhelmed. I wouldn’t want to try without assistance.” Images of his mother flashed through his mind, her eyes sightless and her hands trembling as she was overcome by a vision of some possible future. He’d always been afraid of his gift, something he’d shoved far into the back of his thoughts. The thought of opening himself to it now made him cold inside… more than usual.

“Anyway, life went on for three years while I received my education, and meanwhile my father hadn’t given up trying to have another, better son. Finally my mother did get pregnant. She died giving birth to my sister Charlotte, and my father turned to drink.”

This was a part of Oliver’s childhood that he didn’t particularly like thinking about. He frowned, and his arms tightened around Rhys. “Everyone doted on Charlotte, even my father. She was a sweet little doll of a girl, and once she began to walk and talk, she would always be following after me or leading me by the hand. I would have done anything for her, like most older brothers. And meanwhile, in one of his brief moments of lucidity, my father dismissed my tutor, and announced that I would be his apprentice in the smithy. I was only eleven then, and there was no one to oppose him, so that was what happened. Luckily, the priestess had the presence of mind to teach me how to block the Sight completely, and I did, if only to save myself from my father’s wrath. I was his apprentice for five years, though it was his assistants that taught me, as he was drunk most of the time. Anyway, when I was sixteen I grew about a foot, and suddenly I was bigger than my father. Or at least taller, as I was even more of a walking scarecrow than I am now. He was much less frightening when I was looking down on him. One day, I decided I’d had enough. I ran away, to Wayrest.”

“Your father was a fool,” she whispered, “A useless, cold-hearted, egoistical fool. To think he thought that he was the only one who suffered…”

He couldn’t help but smile a little in her defense of his younger self. “Yes, well, I doubt he bothered to regret his actions. Anyway, I knew a little magic, besides Seeing, as it had always fascinated me, and when I got to Wayrest, I tried to find a mage who would accept me as a pupil. This was back in the early days of the Mages’ Guild, just after they had broken from the Psijic Order. There were far more eager students than teachers and I was nothing special with my gift sealed away, so I couldn’t find a place. I kept myself fed using sleight of hand to cheat at cards, and eventually I caught the attention of the Thieves’ Guild. I was too old and too tall for cat burglary, but there were few enough mages willing to work with thieves that the head of that branch, a female khajit whose name I’ve now forgotten, agreed to buy me books to learn magic if I agreed to make a real effort at Enchanting, even though that was not where my interests lay. So we had an agreement, and I learned to make magical weapons and armor, and since I was trained as a blacksmith, I improved their regular weapons as well, which gave us a real advantage over the average gutter trash. The Wayrest Guild was doing fairly well for itself by the time I was in my mid-twenties. And this whole time I’d been sending letters to Charlotte. One day, she told me my father had taken a turn for the worse and begged me to come home.”

“I did return to the farm. My father was now a shadow of himself, due to the ravages of drink. He hardly remembered me most days, but the rest of the people in the village did, and they were happy to allow me to take control of the running of the farm and the smithy. That might have been the end of it. My father was dying, and having spent nearly a decade on my own, I was accustomed to doing exactly as I pleased. We argued, occasionally, but what could he say? I made sure my sister and the farm were taken care of, and I ran the smithy myself, only now we enchanted weapons, which in those days was not something many tiny villages could attest.”

“However, I’d never forgotten the debt I owed to the Thieves’ Guild and that was the beginning of my downfall. We heard about a man in the mountains reported to have an extraordinary magical item. A key that could open any lock. Of course, the Guild needed that for themselves, and as I was nearby, they asked for my help. But we were sorely unprepared for what we found. This man was some sort of necromancer involved with the Daedra. Most of the thieves were killed, a few were captured, including myself. I don’t remember much of that, thankfully, except that I was experimented on, and it was painful. One night, I escaped. I killed the cultists and went home. I didn’t understand what had happened to me at first, only that I was desperately thirsty but unable to drink. I thought I was dying of some illness. When I reached the farm, I discovered I’d been missing for weeks. I argued with my father… I’m sure you can imagine what happened then,” he said, sighing into Rhys’s hair. He felt like he been drained dry, but on the other hand, there was relief as well, to have everything laid out.

“I know you must have heard it a million times … but it’s not your fault,” she said, her arms tight around him.

“No,” he said, blinking in surprise. “Even the few friends I’ve found have not been particularly interested in my life story. It was a long time ago, and few people find comforting a vampire high on their list of priorities. I’ve never told anyone before. Well…” he amended with a twist of his mouth. “I did tell a priestess of Mara once, when I was finally in control enough to attempt to be around other people again. She sent the whole town after me with torches, and I’m afraid I rather lost my taste for religion.”

She kissed him then, slow and sweet. It was like being brought back to life. “You’re a good man, Oliver. You tried your best. The rest was out of your hands.”

“You don't know how much it means to me, that even now you still believe me to be a good man,” he said, pressing their foreheads together.

“Even now? You act as if you’ve done something to prove me wrong,” she said, catching his hand in hers and pressing his palm against her cheek. “I’ve looked into the face of evil, saw the poison spread, twisting people into monsters. Sometimes I thought it stared out of my own eyes. But I have never seen any sign of that in your eyes. Not once.”

He couldn’t help chuckling a little. “I think you and I might have a different concept of morality than most people. Even so, I have killed many innocent people to feed myself in the past. Even after learning how to better control my thirst, I still charmed people into my bed for hundreds of years for the express purpose of feeding on them. Most people would not call these the actions of a good man. I think I can be content with considering myself a neutral actor in the universe. But I still appreciate your faith in me,” he said, caressing her face with his thumbs. “Now you promised to tell me about your childhood. I suspect it was at least intially more cheerful than mine.”

******************

Rhys didn’t like the way he thought about himself but at the same time she understood. She didn’t think of herself of a good woman. She had betrayed and murdered and forsaken everything she had believed. There had been no choice; she had only done what she had to do, for her own survival or the survival of those around her. Even so, guilt still gnawed at her, waking and sleeping. How could she presume to tell him he was wrong? 

“My childhood…” She hummed and settled back against him, her fingers intertwining with his. His heart beat once against her back. 

“I was born deep in the woods of Valenwood. My village was.. is still, I guess… a small one, and we lived a simple life. My mother is a priestess of Y'ffre; a spinner, we call them. You see, spinners tell stories. Past, present, future… they weave them together our history and record it. My mother can ensnare a whole village with her song, and we believe that Y'ffre puts the words in her mouth. Spinners also uphold and enforce the Green Pact. My father is a hunter, and he loves my mother more than I have ever seen anyone love someone.

My mother was told she could never have children, so my birth was a miracle, a gift directly from Y’ffre. For my parents, it was like their world was finally complete. My mother named me after her favorite flowers, with petals the same color as my hair, and before I became a werewolf, my eyes were green as the heart of the forest, which of course just proved their belief about my divine origin.”

She sighed at the thought of that, slowly shaking her head. “Personally, I've never felt particularly holy. The eldest Spinner in my village prophesied that I would shake the foundation of their lives. Naturally, my parents thought I’d become a great Spinner myself. I grew up like any other child in my village, well loved and doted on, and my days were filled with joy and song and stories. 

I showed promise in the practices of my mother’s craft at a young age but, I always preferred hunting with my father. Out in the forest, it felt like I was free, flying from tree to tree like a bird. My mother’s lessons required me to sit still and learn. Spells, books and practices had to be repeated and perfected. It just wasn’t for me… When I turned six my mother finally caved and let me run free with my father, though she never held my disinterest for the tradition against me.

‘You are as wild as a summer storm,’ she used to say, ‘you’re not meant to stay in one place’.”

“It sounds lovely,” Oliver said softly, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I can just imagine you running through the forest like a little whirlwind. It doesn’t suprise me to know you were uninterested in studying.”

She chuckled. “In that aspect, I haven't changed. I really liked the singing to plants bit, but the thought of learning all those stories and histories….” She shuddered at the thought. “No… Not for me.” 

“No wonder you were so offended by my lack of musical talent,” he said.

She shook her head and continued, “I was outside from dawn till dusk just running, exploring and hunting. I climbed every tree I could, sometimes so high I couldn’t get down, and the adults had to come and haul me out if it, screaming the whole way. I also liked to scare the chickens. I got in trouble for that so many times.”

 She smiled at the memory, and Oliver’s laughter vibrated in his chest, but they were coming to the difficult part. She swallowed before speaking again. “I became a full-fledged member of the hunters at 18. I guess everyone at that age thinks they’re immortal, but I wasn't only reckless. I had to be the best, always trying to outdo everyone around me. It would cost me greatly…”

Rhys fell silent. She wasn't ready to talk about Coldharbour or Meridia, but she wanted to tell Oliver some of the truth. After everything he had shared, she felt he deserved something.

“When I turned 19,” she started, carefully choosing her words. “I went on a big hunt with my party. The trail of the big game we were chasing led down a path we had never taken before. There were signs of intruders. The others wanted to turn back, and tell the village, but I insisted that it was our jobs as hunters to dispatch them. Eventually, I convinced most of them and we split up. We found one of those Oblivion anchors, but of course we had no idea what we were getting into. The worm cultists ambushed us. They…. sacrificed my friends. I had to watch as their souls were ripped out of their bodies to make way for the enormous chains coming out of Coldharbour. I was the final key.”

It was difficult to say anything else. She took a few shuddering breaths, and Oliver’s arms tightened around her, a silent reminder of his steadying presence.

“When I say I was soulless… that’s what I meant. They ripped my soul out and left me a husk when they used my soul to open the anchor. I don’t know what happened next. I can’t remember anything until Razum’dar pulled me out of the water at Khenarthi’s Roost.”

“No one should have to go through that,” he said softly. “I know it is easy to say ‘don’t blame yourself’ but you couldn’t have known. If you hadn’t intervened, they might have come for the whole village.”

“No one can know what would have happened if I hadn’t insisted on going after them. Maybe someone else would have suffered on my stead; maybe the village would have suffered. All the what-ifs don’t change the fact that I lived through it. That I led those men and women to their death through my own stubbornness. It wouldn’t be the last time. And yet every time I came out alive,” she said, closing her eyes in an attempt to shake the memories getting ahold of her heart.

“We all do what we must. Martyrdom is only noble when someone else is doing it, after all.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “I, of course, have selfish reasons to be glad for your survival.”

His soft remark about his selfishness made her lips curve upward. Despite what Oliver might think of himself or her, Rhys knew he was a better man than she deserved. Emotions overcame her, so intense they took her breath. She loved him, there was no denying it.

With strength that didn’t fit her small frame she pulled him on top of her, his weight deliciously pressing her into the bed. Her hands cupped his face, pulling him in until their lips were barely touching. “When this nightmare with Mephala is over, let’s go away. Somewhere far away where we don’t have to save anyone, where we don’t have to fight any more,” she whispered in a rough voice. “If we survive this, Oliver, I promise you… if we survive I will be yours.”

“Cariad,” he murmured, burying his fingers in her hair and kissing her deeply. “I have long been yours, whatever my initial intentions. But if that is all I have to do to win your heart for myself, I am certain we’ll survive. I would throw Mephala from her cursed throne with my own two hands in order to have that prize.”

She kissed him back with desperate intensity, wrapping her arms and legs around him to hold him close. His words made her heart swell and break at the same time. She knew. She knew how much he loved her, and she wished she could just tell him. That she was already his. That her heart wore his name. But giving him that, letting him in so far into her inner sanctun and laying herself bare…

She couldn’t. Not yet. If she gave him everything, and then he died at Mephala's hands, she knew her heart would stop beating the minute he took his last breath.

Before he could say more, she pressed her fingers to his lips again. “Shhh, no vows… no declarations of affection,” she said with ragged breath, “I can’t bear it. Please. After… when this is done, you can promise me the moon and the stars if you wish.”

He pursed his lips. “You have a special talent for inspiring me to impatience, which considering I am three hundred years old, is saying something. When this is over, I’m going to take you somewhere far away, and then I’m going to spoil you, and you’re going to like it.”

“Just live, Oliver. Please. I can’t bear the thought of losing you,” she said, pulling his head against her chest. He sighed against her skin.

“You may not like promises, but despite the incidents of our time together, a vampire of my age is quite difficult to kill.” He looked up, his crimson eyes pulling at her with the intensity of a storm. “I hope you will also be careful. I don’t want to lose you either.”

“I will do my very best not to die,” she whispered. Despite her worries, it didn't take her long to fall asleep, with Oliver held close against her heart.


	9. Soul Shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys and Oliver are captured by cultists as they attempt reconnaissance on the temple in Blackmarsh. They are both subjected to torture, and then after forcing Oliver to reveal the contents of his heart, Mephala attempts to break them both with one devastating action.

He was having a dream, the kind he used to have often as a boy, where he was back at his father’s smithy and everything was going wrong. Any moment his father would come in, bellowing, and he would realize he wasn’t wearing any pants… “Oliver,” a voice called, a female voice as lovely as a siren. Green vines started growing over the walls.

He was awake, taking a deep breath. Rhys pressed her lips to his forehead, and he reached up to pull her close, burying his nose in her hair and kissing her cheek. She closed her eyes, leaning into him, and for a moment, the world was only them, warmth and breath and heartbeat. He wanted to savor this feeling, to immerse himself in the sanctuary of her arms, but Oliver knew they couldn’t dawdle today. He brushed his nose along her jaw once more before releasing her and pushing himself out of bed to get ready.

His gear was essentially the same stuff he had worn to their first temple excursion, but he had renewed all the enchantments, and added an extra physical warding glyph to the coat. He had no interest in being stabbed again. Once he was dressed, he tied his hair back, and strapped on his sword belt. He’d enhanced the sword as well, with a Daedra banishing enchantment, and there were five large blood potions in his bag. There was nothing left to prepare, and the stars were coming out.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked Rhys, brushing his fingers over the back of her neck. She turned and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, looking up at him with her fierce golden eyes.

“Yes… as ready as I can be,” she replied, “Just… promise me one thing.” She took his hands, squeezing his fingers with strength that should not have surprised him. “Please, don’t recklessly endanger yourself trying to keep me safe. I’m a soldier. An assassin. A werewolf. I don't die easily.”

“I’ll do my best to curb my natural protective instincts,” he said, leaning down to kiss her brow. He might have said the same thing in return, but considering his recent track record of near-death experiences, it didn't feel justified. 

He stepped back, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “We shouldn’t stall any longer if we want to get to our destination by daybreak.” They would have to camp. Oliver hated camping, but in this case it couldn’t be avoided. The journey to the ziggurat would take all night.

They left the guildhall just as the last rays of sun faded from the sky. The journey went better than Oliver expected; they only had to run from the wildlife once, when the creature Rhys had warned him about leaped out of the undergrowth. Luckily, Oliver was able to grab her and teleport them up a tree. Otherwise, though his boots were unpleasantly soggy, they survived unscathed, and it was still fully dark when they could see the ziggurat rising through the trees.

They started to look around for a hidden thicket or large hollow tree to spend the day, the thought of which made Oliver shudder, when he heard a sound that didn’t belong.

******************

When Rhys sensed the ambush it was already too late. The enemy must've camouflaged their scents; they knew exactly who they were after. Three cultists jumped toward her. She drew her blades, kicking one of them in the stomach and slashing at the face of another. _Swish-thunk,_ the sound of a crossbow firing. Oliver cried out, but before she could even look his way, the third assailant tried to catch her in a bear hug. She ducked under and behind, burying her blades in his kidneys.

The space around her was clear, and her eyes darted, frantically trying to assess the situation. She couldn't see Oliver in the chaos, and she called his name, but the air was suddenly heavy. Her lungs struggled to draw breath. She recognized the sensation of a serious spell being worked, and she could only hope it was Oliver…

But dark magic shot out of the ground, ethereal chains dragging her downward. She fell with a furious scream, and now the spell had her by the throat. Oliver spun into her view, flinging a spray of ice with his right hand and fending off attacks with his blade in the other. He was bleeding freely from multiple wounds, which was not a good sign, but he was still on his feet.

“Ol…i. .ver,” Rhys croaked out, and he turned, eyes wild. Another crossbow bolt flashed through the air, and he stumbled as it struck him in the back, but he was running toward her, calling her name. She tried to rise to her hands and knees, but the spell was too strong; her lungs burned from lack of oxygen. A hum sounded in her ears, coming from the chains pinning her down. Oliver fell to his knees. Streaks of lightning raced down the chains, and her vision went white as pain exploded through her body, and then, she knew no more.

***************

It was pain that brought her back to consciousness. Her muscles and joints ached, her skin felt scalded, even thinking hurt, and she couldn't remember… Groaning, she tried to move but flinched from sudden searing pain in her wrists.

Silver…. someone had strung her up on the wall with silver shackles.

Memories started to come back in a flood. She and Oliver had been captured by cultists. They had tortured her; silver knives, hot irons, and lightning spells flashed through her mind. The scent of blood and death flooded her nostrils. She gagged but her stomach was empty.

Time passed, and the cell door opened. A hooded cultist, an altmer with breath that stank of narcotic, grabbed her by the jaw. He punched her in the face, and smiled as if he'd accomplished something. A rough, bitter chuckle escaped her, and turned into a full throated laugh. Suddenly she couldn’t stop until peals of hysterical laughter echoed off the walls. Was this what being mad was like?

“Torture?” she panted. “Molag Bal had me in Coldharbour for ten fucking years! Every waking hour was agony, and still I didn't break. Do you really think you can do what he couldn’t?! I will feast on your heart!”

“Silence, abomination,” the man ordered, slapping her across the face again.

She growled and snapped her teeth. “Where is Oliver?! What did you do to him?! You better not have hurt him, or I’ll slaughter every single soul in this gods-forsaken place!!”

“The vampire is our Lady’s special project,” the cultist said with a cruel sneer. Rhys’s blood went cold. “You'll see him soon,” her captor said, picking up another silver dagger. “If you live that long.”

***************

When Oliver was next aware of his body, he felt like he was on fire from a hundred paper cuts, and there was a hot band of agony around his wrists. He opened his eyes to a dim stone chamber where he was chained to the wall with silver manacles. Blood dripped freely from myriad shallow cuts on his chest and stomach, like someone was trying to drain him of blood in the most painful and slow way they could imagine.

 _Welcome home, my son._ A quiet, rasping voice slithered through his mind, making him shudder.

“My mother has been dead for three centuries,” he replied hoarsely. “Do not play games with me. Who are you and what do you want?”

 _I thought you were clever enough to figure it out by now. All those years ago, you were made by my power,_ the voice answered. _We thought you died, like all the others. But once I had turned my attention to the former Vestige, you walked right into my temple to fulfill your destiny._

“Mephala,” he hissed. “But vampires come from Molag Bal.”

 _That idiot couldn’t see the potential of his children. He doesn’t deserve the privilege,_ she practically snarled out. _When I am through, you will be truly perfect creations, spreading death and deception through every corner of Nirn. But first, you require re-education,_ she said nastily. _Without my guidance, you have grown soft._

He didn’t like the sound of that. “What have you done with Rhys? She has no part in this.”

 _Your lover is still alive. For now,_ Mephala cooed. _She is unusual and therefore potentially useful. Perhaps if you behave yourself, I might even let you have a glimpse before I break her._

There was a satisfied cackle in his mind, and then the presence was gone. He struggled against his chains, but he knew it was useless. His mana was exhausted and physically, he was much too weak to break free. He leaned his head back, despair welling up within him. Maybe if the Dominion arrived, at least Rhys could escape. Oliver had little hope left for himself.

He didn’t know how long he hung there. Days, probably, it was difficult to tell the passage of time with nothing to think about but pain and fear. He was maddeningly, dangerously thirsty, but it hardly seemed to matter in the face of everything else. 

Screams and howls echoed down the corridors, and every time he felt his heart lurch in terror. What were they doing to Rhys? Was she even still alive? Mephala’s words certainly couldn’t be trusted. She slipped into his head to taunt occasionally, but gave no further clues to her plans. Maybe she just wanted to see how much punishment his body could take. That sounded like her.

He wasn’t sleeping exactly, more like drifting through a fog of suffering, when a slap to his face jolted him back to the present. “Wake up, leech. Our Lady has something special in mind for you,” said a hooded cultist in an oily voice. 

Oliver would’ve liked to say something witty about the sub-par accommodations, but he couldn’t manage much more than a snarl of pain as they released the manacles from the wall and he slumped to the floor. His shoulders were screaming, but then, the rest of him wasn’t much better off. If he hadn’t been so weak, he thought, this would be the perfect time to escape, but he could hardly move; there was silver everywhere. They must’ve exhausted every mine on the continent.

Two more cultists hauled him up between them, letting his feet drag as they transported him down the hall and up a flight of stairs. He could feel a modicum of strength returning as they moved away from the cell, and he knew the very bricks must have been enchanted to drain him. But there was no time to take advantage of it.

They entered the main chamber, a soaring room which must’ve once been wondrous to behold. Even now with the stones crumbling and nature reclaiming much of the structure, it still had a sort of desolate beauty. Moonlight poured in from a skylight near the center of the room where a stone altar stood. Were they going to sacrifice him after all? 

He wasn’t as ready to die as he thought, and he started to fight in earnest, managing to elbow one of the men carrying him in the mouth so that he released Oliver to fall on his hands and knees. He lurched forward, pulling a sickle from the belt of the other cultist, but someone clubbed him so hard against the temple that he saw stars.

 _Play nice, children._ Mephala’s voice skittered into his mind again. _We need him intact._ He was lifted up onto the table and strapped down in so many places that even when the dizziness faded he could barely move more than his fingers.

 _Now, my child, what happens next will not be too painful. You see, despite examining your blood, we cannot discover how the ill-fated wizard who created you managed such a thing,_ she said. _You are far too stubborn to tell me anything, and so, I have devised a ritual that will rip the memories right out of your head for all to see._

Already the cultists were drawing sigils of blood on his forehead and the altar, and arranging soul gems. Oliver wondered if his mental blocks had a chance of holding. If she could truly discover how he was made and manipulate the process for her own ends… it couldn’t be a good thing. 

_And just in case you thought of fighting me, I’ve brought a special visitor to join the audience,_ Mephala continued. _As long as you behave, I promise not to slit her throat like the dog she is._

“Rhys…” he whispered. 

********************

At some point, the cell door opened and someone put a chain around her neck. She was dizzy with pain and starvation, barely able to stand as they unchained her wrists. The cultist on the other end of the chain yanked her forward, and she fell face first on the cold stone.

“You useless mutt,” her captor growled, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her along. She tried to fight, but the pain made her thoughts disjointed and her movements jerky and ineffectual.

Then she heard his voice. It was like a spell that washed away everything else. Oliver was strapped onto a stone altar in the center of the room. He was filthy, covered in dried blood and skeletally thin. She wouldn’t have recognized him at all except for his dark hair spread out in a stringy mass behind him, and the low rasp of his voice saying her name. Panic flooded her body with adrenaline, and she managed to break free enough to take a few steps toward him, until the chain on her neck jerked her back.

“Oliver!” she called out hoarsely. “Don’t touch him! I swear I will rip you into shreds!” For the first time in decades, she prayed, to any god that would listen. _Please …Please don’t take him away from me._

“Rhys,” he rasped out. “I’m here. I’m alive… please…” She reached for him, futile as it was, the pain in his voice like a knife to the heart.

 _What a touching reunion,_ the Daedric Prince said in Rhys’s mind, her tone venomously sweet. _But it is time we tested the ritual and I have the perfect subject in mind._ The cultists began chanting and glowing runes lit up all around Oliver. She could see him struggling against the magic, his muscles straining against his bonds. _Now tell us, my wayward child,_ Mephala said, darkly triumphant, _What do you really think of your werewolf lover?_

It was like being plunged in ice water. Rhys knew, even before the spell took effect, that she wasn't ready to hear what it might reveal. And even more than that, it was something so private and sacred that the thought of Mephala's touching it made her ill. “Mephala, no! Please! Take me instead,” she pleaded, her heart pounding with desperation, but it was too late.

Images were projected above Oliver’s head, as if through mist, all of his memories of her, the night in the garden, the moment when she came to him in Vivec City, waking up to find her still in his bed that first time, and others, memories of love and happiness. Somehow all of this was overlaid by the sound of his voice, weirdly deadpan considering the words. “I love her. I love her more than my own life. I would do anything, give anything, if she would agree to stay with me, to be mine alone. It feels wrong to try to keep such a wild thing, but I want a life with her, more than I have ever wanted anything.” 

His words struck Rhys in the heart, piercing her over and over again until she was on her knees sobbing his name, begging Mephala to stop. Oliver’s tears made tracks of white through the dirt on his cheeks as the vision changed to what could only be his hopes, the most desperate dreams of his heart, a life together, children yet to be born. The truth of his love stole Rhys’s breath, so much deeper and more frightening than she'd ever imagined, enough to shatter her to pieces.

 _How disappointing,_ Mephala intoned sourly. _No anger, no simmering resentment. But no matter, the ritual works. So now, let us go up the work at hand. Tell me, Oliver, how were you made a vampire? What do you remember?_ This, Rhys realized dimly through her distress, was what Mephala was really after. Everything else had only been to make them suffer.

The vision changed to a dimly lit underground laboratory. Oliver was crouched behind a table, signaling to someone behind him. Rhys knew this story; this was his failed mission with the Thieves’ Guild, back when he'd still been mortal. A small part of her wished it wasn't from his perspective so she could see what he'd looked like then, but it was hardly important.

An alarm sounded, bells clanging and magic flashing. There were screams. He darted forward to pull back another smaller thief, flinging them toward the exit, then someone grabbed him from behind, bashing him over the head. Then he was hanging in a cell, dying of thirst. A hooded figure moved toward him, releasing his chains, and Oliver went wild, lashing out with magic and fists and teeth until his creator was a bloody mass on the ground, and then he fled into the night.

 _So, you remember nothing. Useless,_ Mephala hissed. _At the very least, you will be my tool._ That didn't sound good. Rhys struggled against her chains, but it was no use. _Of course, as you are now, I can hardly trust your obedience. But this ritual has a secondary purpose. Now that I’ve seen what you know, I will cleanse you of all these pointless memories and emotions, leaving you a clean slate for I alone to write._

His eyes went wide with fear. “No!” Rhys shouted, frantically lunging toward him. She had to save him! If she couldn't protect the man she loved, there would be no point left in the world. But the cultists were chanting, drowning out Oliver’s cries. He was calling her name, and she couldn't reach him. There was a burst of light, and he screamed; she would never forget the sound.

“No! Please, gods, no, no, no!” She didn't even know what she was saying, despair and fear and anger and grief all mingled together. He went limp, and her heart felt like it stopped. His eyes were closed, but she knew, somehow, that they were empty. Oliver was gone; his body reduced to an empty shell. 

Something inside her snapped. Her vision was like a shattered mirror, and for one long heartbeat, the whole cave went silent. Everything went… silent, like the world holding its breath.

All at once, the dam broke, and Rhys screamed in desperation and agony until her lungs felt like they were tearing apart. The world drowned in red-tinted fury, the kind of rage that gave her power. She would rip them to shreds, every single one. For what they had done, death was too kind a punishment.

The bones of her body shattered and reformed in seconds. The cultists stumbled back as her small frame twisted and grew into that of a giant white werewolf. She howled her fury and grief to the heavens, the song of rage pounding in her veins. They had taken Oliver away from her, and now they would pay.

*******************

He was rushing through a tunnel of prismatic light, and his first thought was that he must be dying. And that was somewhat of a relief because it meant Mephala had failed, but also it hurt. Everything he had ever wanted, just at his fingertips only to be snatched away, and he had broken his promise, the only one that mattered. 

But then, he burst through the other side like emerging from a deep dive, and found himself back in the temple, standing just to the right of his own unconscious form. From the outside, he looked even worse than he had felt, but he wasn’t dead. Oliver could sense the slow beating of his own heart and see the silver cord connecting his spirit to his body.

The ritual had not erased his memories, but had somehow separated his spirit from his physical form. There was still hope, but more important at the moment was Rhys. She was screaming… howling and changing in a way that looked horrifyingly painful, and then she rose up, her snow white fur glistening in the moonlight. She was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, casting aside her chains like a minor inconvenience and roaring with rage. 

He moved to her with a thought. She needed to know that he wasn’t gone, but she passed right through him like smoke. He could only watch as she unleashed her fury. 

But then, there was a shiver through the air that made even his spirit form tingle. At least a dozen members of the Psijic Order, including Ritemaster Celarus himself, appeared in a circle around the altar, spells at the ready. 

_You meddlesome fools!_ Mephala shrieked, her voice somehow more vile now that he had no physical ears. _I’ll kill you all!_

Rhys tore through the cultists with furious snarls. They threw themselves at her, unleashing spells and wielding weapons, but she broke then like so much kindling. She leaped up on the dais next to him and caught one cultist in her jaw, crushing their head like a soft melon, blood pouring between her teeth.

He almost felt sorry for the cultists, but only almost. There was something hypnotic about Rhys’s rage. Oliver felt he should be horrified, but he couldn’t quite look away. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t dealt just as much death in his lifetime, though it had been a bit less gory. 

She towered over his lifeless form, growling menacingly at the Psijics, who froze, unsure how to react, and he felt he should try to intervene, if anyone could hear him. “Stop, please!” His voice echoed strangely, and Rhys didn’t seem to notice.

But Celarus turned in his direction, eyes narrowed. “Don’t hurt her. She’s is hurt, and angry for my sake.” Oliver wasn’t sure if he’d been heard, but Celarus held up his hands.

“We do not wish to harm you. We are friends. Oliver asked us to come. We can help him.” Oliver hoped she was lucid enough to listen; he didn’t want them to fight. 

The white werewolf gnashed her teeth, her growl deepening. Another of the Psijics, Valsirren, he thought, held out a soothing hand. Rhys snapped her teeth at her, almost taking off her arm. The monks looked at each other, probably deciding how best to restrain an enraged werewolf, and then a figure stepped forward, someone Oliver never thought he'd be glad to see.

“Stand back,” the khajit ordered in a commanding voice. “This one knows her. Raz can handle this.” Razum’dar approached her slowly, cautiously, his hands raised to show her he was no threat. Oliver could see her nostrils flare at his familiar scent.

“This one is sorry he is so late, my friend,” Raz said, and Rhys’s eyes followed his every move. “Raz knows they have hurt you, but you must focus. Oliver is still alive, but he needs help that neither you nor Raz can give.”

A heartbreaking whimper escaped her, and she leaned down, nudging Oliver’s body with her muzzle. He’d never felt so helpless in his life. Now, when Rhys needed his reassurance more than anything, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t touch her. He felt like weeping or screaming, but he had no tears.

“These mages here can save him, but you have to let them close,” Razum’dar continued. “Please… trust this one.” Rhys flinched when the khajit put his hand on her arm, but she didn't snap or snarl. Oliver could almost see sense returning to her eyes, “It’s all right. This one is here to catch you.”

She howled as her body twisted and shrank back into the form of a small, red-headed bosmer. Overcome with exhaustion, she might have fallen, but Raz caught at her arms, holding her upright. “Oliver…” she whispered, her hoarse voice barely audible. “Please be all right.”

Now that the danger had passed, the Psijics rushed forward, removing the bindings from his body and running diagnostic spells. “Physically, all he needs is fresh blood and time,” Celarus said after a moment. “But I am not yet sure of the extent of the damage to his mind and spirit. He is stable enough to move, so I believe the best course of action is to bring him to Artaeum. You are both welcome to come as well, of course. It looks like you may need some healing, yourself,” he added, extending a hand in Rhys’s direction.

Oliver had never seen her look so desperate. She shook her head, uncomprehending, and apparently she’d reached her limit. Her eyes rolled back, and she crumpled like a discarded handkerchief. Raz lifted her easily. “This one will bring her to Artaeum, and stay until she wakes, at least. Raz doesn’t like to think what will happen if you cannot save the vampire.”

All Oliver wanted was to take her in his arms. If he had teeth, he would have ground them in frustration. It wasn't even jealousy at this point, it was a burning, all-consuming need to comfort the one he loved, and to be comforted in return. 

A few minutes later, his body was strapped to a board and the portal was cast. The trip to Artaeum was not quite like any other teleport, and he could only hope that his spirit would follow his body without his intervention because he had no idea how to travel Aetherius without guidance.

**************

Her sleep was turbulent, marked by pain, and filled with dreams both confusing and frightening. She could hear Oliver calling her name from somewhere in the distance, but she could never reach him. The air was filled with blood and screams.

Rhys came awake with a gasp, blinking in the sunlight pouring down on her face. Her first thought was that she'd forgotten to close the curtains, and her heart pounded imagining that she might have hurt Oliver. She reached out, but the strangely soft bed was empty. She was alone. Dread gripped her, but she didn't yet know why.

She tried to sit up, but her muscles screamed with pain. “By the gods, I feel like I’ve been churned out of a meat grinder. What in Oblivion happened to me?” she groaned, pushing past the aching and fatigue to struggle to her feet.

She hobbled over to a small, circular window and beheld a beautiful island. The sky was filled with many dim suns, bathing the land in golden light. It was like Auridon, but infused with magic. “Where am I?” she murmured.

“This is Artaeum, the island of the Psijic Order,” said a familiar voice from behind her. Raz was standing in the doorway his arms folded over his chest, and she remembered. The temple, the cultists, Mephala, and Oliver lying lifeless on the altar. 

“Where is Oliver?” she asked, her voice dangerously calm. Inside, panic was making her heart race, and her thoughts were spinning wildly. “Please tell me he’s alive, I’m begging you.”

Razum'dar gave her a long look, but didn't speak. Her chest filled with ice. “No,” she whispered, the world beginning to swim around her.

“He is alive,” the khajit finally said, stepping forward to take her arm, probably in case she fainted again. “But he is not awake.”

“What do you mean?” Terrifying possibilities sprang to mind, but Razum’dar shrugged.

“Come, this one will bring you to him.” He led her to the room next door where the curtains were drawn. Oliver was lying on the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, clean and dressed in a loose white shirt that only exacerbated the paleness of his skin. He looked like a corpse, but she could see his chest rise and fall at its usual slow rate.

Rhys shrugged off Raz’s hand and stumbled towards her lover, though at first she was afraid to touch him. “Oliver…” she whispered, letting her fingers trail through his hair. That always made him smile, even in sleep, but now he didn't react at all. “Why…why isn’t he waking up? He looks fine…” In fact, he looked much healthier, though she saw, to her surprise, silver lines of scar on the inside of his forearms that she was sure hadn't been there before. There was a thin tube in one of his nostrils, leading to a bottle of blood on a rack beside the bed. What had Mephala done to him?

Razum’dar didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn't know what to say, though his expression was both concerned and pitying. “This one will go fetch the Psijic leader. This Celarus can explain things better, Raz thinks.”

The Ritemaster of the Psijic Order was a middle-aged Altmer with a deep, melancholy voice. “You must be Rhys of Valenwood. Oliver spoke of you when he last contacted me.”

“You were friends?” she asked, her fists clenched with anxiety. Her eyes kept flicking back to her lover’s face, deceptively serene. 

Celarus nodded. “He has performed some services for the Order in the past, and we sheltered him here for several years during the events of the civil war and the Planemeld. Mannimarco had a keen interest in a vampire who was seemingly free of Molag Bal’s influence. Oliver is a scholar and a powerful wizard. He might have become a Psijic himself, if our previous Ritemester had not been averse to a vampire member.”

All things she wished she had asked him about, and now she might never have the chance. “What is wrong with him? Why won't he wake?”

“We aren’t sure what Mephala’s intentions were for this ritual, but the result seems to be that Oliver’s spirit was driven from his body traumatically, and an attempt was made to prevent it from returning. We have undone the bindings, but so far, his soul has not come back. Whatever tortures Mephala inflicted were designed to linger; it is possible he is still in some pain, which may be part of why he does not wake. If this continues for a few more days, we will attempt to call him back with magic,” Celarus said with a sigh. “I think he will recover eventually, but I cannot offer any guarantees.”

The mage’s words bit deep. She had seen the scars with her own eyes, but the thought that he was still suffering made her vision blur with unshed tears. “Tell me honestly,” she said, her voice almost hollow, “how sure are you that he can be saved?” She almost couldn't bear to hear the answer.

Celarus’ voice sounded pained. “I thought in the temple I sensed him nearby, but that is no longer the case. I am not sure what that means. All we can do is try to guide him back. The longer his spirit strays from his body, the more likely it will be for him to suffer long-term complications.”

So that was it then. Even if he woke, he would never be the same. “This is my fault,” she whispered, her head bowed. “Could you give me a little time with him, please?”

“Of course,” Celarus said, looking a bit weepy himself. He closed the door as he left the room, and she climbed into the bed next to Oliver, stroking his cold cheek.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she sobbed, not able hold back her tears any longer. “My love, I’m so sorry. If only you’d never met me…” She turned her face into the fabric of his shirt and cried until she had no tears left. 

Hours passed and no one dared disturb her, but Oliver never stirred, his breathing remaining slow and even. A cold, numb feeling began to spread through her limbs. Without him, she felt lifeless, like she might as well be dead. She had lost her heart, and she had never told him how she really felt.

She sat up, wiping the last tears with the back of her hand and looking down at his still, white face, memorizing it. “I should have told you before,” she said finally, her hand trembling as she pushed his hair back from his forehead. “I love you, Oliver, so much. You have my heart, always. But if they can't bring you back, it would kill me, and I can't die yet. Mephala is still out there. She has a lot to answer for, and I won't let her hurt you again.”

Just the act of standing up from the bed felt like the worst torture she'd ever experienced. She pulled the blanket over him, pressing her lips to his cheek and brow, caressing his long fingers one last time. “I won't need my heart, where I’m going, so I’ll leave it here with you,” she said finally. “I'm sorry.”

She stole out into the corridor, using every bit of her training to ensure that no one noticed her passing. If she'd had any tears left, she would have cried as she packed her things, but she felt empty and lifeless inside. She penned a quick note to Raz. _If Oliver wakes up, tell him I’m gone, that I died._ Then she left Ceporah Tower and took the portal to Summerset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will come later today. Trying to save the RP from the Tumblrpocalypse.


	10. Threads of Fate and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is brought back to the material plane and has to confront a new reality, one where his Sight has been blasted open and Rhys is nowhere to be found. The Psijics offer him a place in the Order, but his heart leads him to Rhys and his visions lead him to Summerset, where he meets Razum’dar again.
> 
> Rhys attempts to flee from her grief but is troubled by her dreams and the crushing loneliness of Oliver’s absence. When her sleeping mind keeps showing her spiderwebs on Ayrenn’s throne, she decides to travel to Summerset as well.

The moment Oliver’s body went through the portal, he felt a tug on his spirit, but instead of following after the others, he seemed to pass directly into Aetherius. Raw magic swirled around him in a rainbow of colors, and he was blown about on unseen currents. For a moment, he feared he would lose himself, just dissolve into the primal chaos, and then he heard someone calling his name. 

It was Rhys. He could hear her, feel her even, like a vibration through his being, and somewhere in the distance he saw a bloom of color, scarlet and green. He willed himself toward it, and her voice got louder, and he could hear someone else speaking now, Celarus. The Ritemaster was telling Rbys what happened to him, that he might never wake.

In the Spirit World, Oliver shouted a denial of Rhys’s anguish. He would have raised his fists, his instinct being to bang on the window he was forced to stand outside, but of course there was no window; he didn’t even have fists to raise. 

It wasn’t her fault. Mephala would’ve found him eventually, and he would never have chosen not to have Rhys in his life. If he would’ve changed anything, it would’ve been to find her earlier. The intensity of his emotions seemed to send an electric impulse throughout his whole form. He felt more solid, more real, but he still couldn't push through to the material plane. He could only watch as she broke down and wept over his body.

Her grief colored his world in shades of gray, the magic around him thick and sluggish as cold porridge. He needed to go to her with an intensity that was a fire at the center of his being, but he couldn’t. And then, she said that she loved him and left.

He’d waited what seemed like centuries to hear those words, and now he felt as if he’d been frozen and struck with a hammer until he shattered. His will left him, and his spirit drifted, aimless and empty. At that moment, he was truly lost.

But then, seconds or possibly millennia later, the air rang with the sound of bells, and he felt himself being pulled along an electric thread, almost unwillingly. If Rhys wasn't there, what was left for him in the world? Voices chanted his name in tones so resonant with power that they could not be denied, and he was pulled back into his body, fire and ice and slow beating heart. But the universe still spun behind his eyes, images bombarding him, past-future-present. He would have screamed if he had the breath.

A familiar voice sounded in the distance- Celarus, an old and trusted friend, one of the few. “Mephala has broken all your mental wards and your Sight has spun out of control. I can help you wield it safely, but I’m afraid you will never again be able to block it completely.”

So brick by brick he rebuilt his defenses and retraced the old paths of training untouched since childhood until finally he was anchored enough to the present to open his eyes to Artaeum’s perpetual twilight. He pushed himself up to sitting with trembling limbs, feeling as unsteady as a newborn colt, and someone pressed a blood potion into his hands. He drank and breathed and finally felt grounded enough to speak.

“How long?” he rasped, squinting over at Celarus. The new Ritemaster regarded him with an appraising eye, his hands folded in the voluminous sleeves of his robes.

“You were brought here over a month ago,” he said finally. “Your companions are long gone.” Oliver knew that already, but it was still like a spike to his heart. Celarus continued, “It took more than a week simply to call your spirit back, and then we had to wrestle with your Sight. You never told me it was that strong.”

“I had no way of knowing; I was only a child when it was blocked,” Oliver said, passing his hands over his face. “What of Mephala?”

“We’ve heard little movement on that front. The Dominion cleared out the ziggurat so I assume she has a bit of rebuilding to do, but I have no doubt she intends to continue to pursue you, if only out of vengeance.”

“I wish I had any idea what her ultimate goal actually was,” Oliver said, sighing. “I would rather have an option other than run away.”

“We will look into it, of course,” Celarus said. “But right now, you should focus on recovery, and I have another matter for you to consider as well. In the past, the Council was wary of admitting a vampire into our order, but now…” he trailed off, but Oliver knew what he meant. With Iachesis gone, the balance of power had shifted. “With more training, you could be a powerful Seer, and considering your many other talents, you would be an asset to our Order. As is customary, you have a year to consider our offer.”

Celarus left then, giving Oliver time to stew in his own thoughts. How long had he yearned for this chance, and now it left him cold… but Rhys was gone. It only took a little investigation to prove what he had suspected; she hadn’t told anyone where she planned to go, nor left any clues or words to comfort him. Apparently, she had decided to cut her losses, he thought bitterly as he sat on a bench and failed to read to a book. 

A week passed, and then another, and finally he could walk across the island without feeling like he was going to collapse. His dreams were vivid and confusing, and he could feel his gift lurking in the edge of his peripheral vision, but for the most part, he was able to keep it at bay unless he wanted to call upon it. One of the Order’s more potent Augers was teaching him to channel his Sight into reading cards; it was a good distraction, enough to allow him to pretend that this was a life he could be content with.

Someone had brought his things from Blackrose, and he started to sort through them, in hopes that it would allow him to bring some order to his thoughts as well. Wouldn’t it be easier, he asked himself as he stacked books and folded clothes, to give himself to this life? To lose himself in quiet scholarship and isolation, leaving his love on the pile of losses he’d accumulated over his too-long life, setting it aside as the remains of another man?

A pile of cream colored linen was crumpled in the bottle of his trunk and as soon as he touched it, the scent of moss and flowers rose up and overwhelmed him. A wave of vision washed over him, a house in the forest, a kiss in the dark, children playing in front of a fireplace, two with fiery locks and one head of black curls, and the clearest vision yet, Rhys walking down a road with the white towers of Alinor on the horizon. He came back to himself with a gasp. Somehow he had fallen onto his knees, he was holding the shirt to his face and it was damp with tears. 

An hour later, he was dressed for travel, and he went to Celarus’s office to say that he was leaving. “Have you made your decision then?” the Ritemaster asked, not as surprised as Oliver might have expected.

“No… I don’t know. I just... I need to… look into something,” he said finally. “I will either return, or I will send word. I’m headed to Summerset, for now.”

A few minutes later, he was in Alinor. It had been more than fifty years since he’d last had contact with the Thieves’ Guild, but he knew Rhys was a member, and he was too, technically. It was a good enough place to start. 

*********************

Razum'dar made his way through the moonlit streets of Shimmerine. The city was quiet at night despite being one of the busiest ports in Summerseat, but the moons were bright and big, illuminating his way perfectly. Not that he needed it. Cats were born to see in the dark.

The khajit turned around a corner and leaped onto a ledge and thence to the roof of a nearby inn, perching on the tiled peak to wait for his target. His agents had brought him news that a very unusual guest was in Summerset, asking discreet questions about the whereabouts of one bosmer assassin. Raz knew an opportunity when he smelled one, and he had no intention of letting it pass by.

A door beneath him opened and a tall, thin man with a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat stepped out onto the darkness.

Raz let him take one step. Another one. He hadn't noticed anything, which surprised the khajit, but it would make this part more fun.

With nary a sound, he pounced onto the tall figure, nailing him to the ground with his claws. “My friend!” he drawled with his usual smug grin. “This one was wondering if the rumors were true. It seems you have returned to the living, so to speak. What a fortunate event!”

Oliver Davies-Thorne scowled up at the him. “This is even less funny than the last time this happened to me. Why can’t you all wave or shake hands like normal people? Yes, I am alive, obviously.” 

The khajit chuckled and rolled off the vampire, letting him sit up and dust himself off. Oliver winced as he rolled his right shoulder, probably from hitting the ground so hard. “Ah, but where is the fun in that? The element of surprise is the most favorite thing for good old Raz,” he said with a smirk, though in truth he wondered if he should have given the man a break, considering. At least vampires healed quickly. “It was very funny for this one!”

Oliver retrieved his hat, but rather than putting it on his head he stuffed it into his jacket. “Yes, hilarious. I don't suppose you have any idea where Rhys is?” Raz raised an eyebrow. Despite her note, he was surprised that Rhys had really run off on Oliver without a word. She had seemed to really care about him, but so much about her had changed since her days as an Eye of the Queen.

“Hmm, this one knows exactly where she is, though she explicitly told her trusted friend Raz to tell you that she is dead,” he admitted. “This is not the reason why this one has chosen to surprise you, however. Raz may have an offer for you, and you should carefully consider accepting it.”

The vampire got to his feet much more slowly than the time Raz had surprised them in the Clockwork City. Whatever Mephala had done to him had obviously weakened him, physically, and his expression was a study in defeat. He let out a sigh, his shoulders slumped. “Very well. I am listening.”

Razum’dar let his expression give nothing away, but he was disturbed by Oliver’s resignation. He'd never seen Rhys so distraught over anyone before. Maybe when Raz himself had been nearly killed, but even that had been different. Raz would have bet money that she loved Oliver, and he, her. He'd expected the vampire to threaten him for information, but it was like all the spark had been sucked out of his eyes.

“Queen Ayrenn has sent this one to Summerset some strange rumors. Mephala is spinning her plots even in the furthest reaches of our kingdom. Raz figured you might have some unfinished business with the Spinner of Lies and would be willing to help the Dominion.”

The vampire pursed his lips, considering. Raz knew he might have reservations about working for the Queen after his long association with the Daggerfall Covenant, but he was hoping his relationship with Rhys, and perhaps a desire to find her, would sway his opinion.

“I certainly would like to know what Mephala’s aims are, as I assume they are not only to make my life difficult. But what exactly would you propose that I do? I am primarily a scholar, not a soldier,” he said, straightening his jacket. “Also, I am not currently in any shape for combat.” 

The khajit laughed, giving Oliver a probably more enthusiastic than necessary pat on the back. “No worries friend! This one dreads going through endless books for information. Your part will be taking that off this one’s paws! Easy eh?”

*******************

Two months had passed since Rhys left Oliver in Artaeum. Despite her determination to make Mephala pay, she was too shaken to do more than hide, and she didn't know where to go. First, she returned to the Dark Brotherhood, but it was only a few weeks before she fled. The presence of so many people was grating to her battered and fragile emotions. The sound of other voices… other than his… hurt her ears. 

But when she was alone, the silence drove her almost mad. Never before had she felt so hollow, so detached from herself. Oliver haunted her waking and sleeping, as if he was always waiting around the next corner to take her in his arms again. And even the dreams which did not involve him wouldn't leave her mind. Spiderwebs made of darkness and deceit clung to everything, curling around the towers of Alinor, slithering over Ayrenn’s throne. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She booked passage to Summerset.

The sea voyage allowed her some measure of peace, though she felt Oliver's absence like a hole in her spirit. She came up on deck as they approached Summerset, sighing deeply and taking in the sea air as the ship docked in the haven of Shimmerine. The soaring buildings of white stone, the luscious flowers, and trees in perpetual bloom sent a nostalgic pang through her heart. It had been a long time. Maybe this was what she needed right now.

Of course, once she was down in the city, she had to decide her next move. She had followed her dreams to this bloody island, but she hadn't planned further than getting here. The obvious route would be to approach the Dominion forces, but she would have to be careful if she didn't want dragged straight to the Queen.

The sound of battle reached her ears, and she moved toward it automatically. It didn’t take her long to find where it was coming from. Razum’dar and another agent were fighting some huge spider-things in a back alley.

Without hesitation, she dove into the fray, daggers drawn. She and the khajit moved around each other like clockwork, just as they had all those years ago. After the monsters were dispatched she turned towards her friend, wiping ichor on her breeches before sheathing her daggers. “Where did those things come from?” she asked in a disgusted voice.

“This one cannot say for sure, but you certainly have come at the right time. Raz was already preparing to contact you.” he said. His expression as he sheathed his sword was strangely calculating. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

Rhys narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Razum’dar shrugged. “We have been having some problems with a new batch of Daedric cultists, and this one has reason to believe that Mephala’s eight little legs are right in the center of it. If anyone has reason to want to help us take care if her, it would be you, yes?”

That caught her attention. If working for the Dominion again was what it took to pay Mephala back for what she'd done to Oliver, so be it. “I'm listening,” she said, her fists clenched at her sides.

“Good, good,” Raz said with a flash of white teeth, “But not here. Let’s go to the inn where we can talk with more privacy.” It was unusual for him to care about speaking in the open, and Rhys frowned. But she remembered her dreams of spiderwebs in the throne room. Spies could be anywhere. She nodded and followed after him.

They wove through the alleys of Shimmerine to an old inn tucked away in a corner. Neither of them spoke until Raz stopped in front of a door on the top floor. “What now?” Rhys asked with a hint of annoyance.

“Now, this one is going to do you a favor.” Before she could react, the khajit grabbed her wrist and flung her into the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Hey! What the bloody hell is that supposed to do?! Raz!!” she yelled as she heard the lock click shut. She banged her fist on the door and yelled. “You stupid fucking cat!! If I get my hands on you, I’ll rip off your face!” Her first thought was that he was going to get Ayrenn, the bastard. Then a scent hit her senses like an explosion. She actually had to brace herself on the door to not be overwhelmed.

This couldn’t be. This couldn’t be. 

The person she thought she would never see again was sitting at a desk covered with books and stacks of paper, staring at her with wide eyes and his mouth half-open. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest.

“Oliver?” Her voice was a broken whisper. He blinked like he expected her to disappear.

She knew it was him, though she could hardly believe it. It was as if her heart was suddenly beating in her chest again. Everything was spinning, and before she realized the trouble she was in, her vision tunneled to two circles showing worried red eyes peering down at her and then went dark.

***************

Working with Razum’dar wasn’t nearly as difficult as Oliver anticipated. The khajit was loud and boisterous with his affection at times, but as intelligent as Rhys had claimed. Figuring out what Mephala wanted kept Oliver busy, which kept him from dwelling on his loneliness and regrets, most of the time. 

Razum’dar had an irritating prescience about when he was inclined to brood, and was always involving him in whatever escapades he had planned, most of which invoked getting information from people not inclined to give it. Even a depressed vampire is fairly intimidating under the right conditions, and Oliver had other ways of compelling people to talk.

However, the khajit was not here, at present, having gone out to investigate rumors of monstrous creatures lurking outside the city walls, and Oliver was reading the cards, a task that had become surprisingly meditative. He laid a card in the near future position, his eyes half-closed, and a shimmer of violet pulsed around his hand. The Lovers, a card he recognized on sight but had never drawn before.

He let out a hollow laugh, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. A door slammed downstairs, and footsteps sounded in the stairwell. Razum’dar usually tried to be quiet, for security reasons, he said, but Oliver thought it was because he got a thrill out of trying to surprise him.

The door opened and her scent blew in like a summer squall. He turned, half-rising out of his chair as Rhys pounded angrily on the door. All of the words he had planned to say, questions, demands, and promises, died on his lips. She turned to face him, her face a mask of surprise that was almost fearful, and whispered his name. Then her eyes rolled back, and he caught her just before she hit the floor, cradling her close. 

For several long moments, he could do nothing but hold her, his eyes flicking over her just to reassure himself that she was real. Somehow, she was even lovelier than he remembered, despite the dark circles under her eyes. She’d lost weight, and he frowned as he rose and brought her to the bed. He wanted to smother her with kisses and bury his face in her hair, but they needed to talk, obviously. She had left him, and he needed to know why. So he brushed her hair from her face and shook her gently by the shoulder.

She came to slowly, like she was clinging to the remnants of a dream she was reluctant to let go of, but when her eyes finally opened enough to perceive him, they went wide. Her fist came out of nowhere.

That was not the response he expected, and he didn’t react quickly enough to avoid a punch to his face that made him see stars. “Arghh!” He yelled, rolling away from her and holding his nose. “Hircine’s balls! Holy Aetherius, what was that for?!” Resisting the urge to curl in on himself, he groped wildly for a handkerchief to stop the blood pouring from his nose, and upon finding one, he pressed it to his face and scowled at her.

“Give me a minute, I’ll think of something!” she snapped, her dagger painted right at his heart. But guilt suffused her features and she lowered the blade after a moment. “They- they said…how are you- how are you here?!”

“I came here to find you after I was well enough to travel,” he said, gingerly pinching the bridge of his nose. Astoundingly, it was not broken this time, though it did hurt. “Your furry friend convinced me not to go banging down the Dark Brotherhood’s door, so I’ve been assisting him in untangling Mephala’s machinations.”

He took a few deep breaths to un-jumble his thoughts. “As to how I recovered, the Psijics undertook a ritual to call my spirit back soon after you left, just as Celarus told you they would.” Though he was relieved to see her, he couldn't hide how much it had hurt to watch her leave.

“Your monk friend said he couldn’t feel your spirit anymore! He said the chances of your recovery were slim, and the more your spirit was away the worse it would be for you! For all I knew you were gone! Dying! I couldn’t bear it!” Her voice started to tremble, “I left because I couldn’t sit by and watch you suffer and die.” Her eyes dropped, already shining with tears.

“I had already almost lost you twice. I couldn’t watch a third time. I would have died… there would have been no life for me after… would you have preferred that? I ran away in cowardly self-preservation. Hate me for it if you must…”

Her anger made his own rise in response, but he hadn’t seen her in two months. He was desperate just to touch her again, not to fight. He blew a long breath out his nose, and listened, his expression softening as her tone became more sorrowful.

“I don’t hate you, good gods,” he said, reaching out to brush a tear from the corner of her eye, opening his arms in mute invitation. “I certainly didn’t suffer Razum’dar’s company for two weeks so I could give you a piece of my mind. But you did make me a promise, and I would have clawed my way out of Aetherius on hands and knees to hold you to your word,” he said, with a hint of playfulness though the words were literally true.

But she flinched back at his touch. “No,” she said fearfully, backpedaling until she collided with the door. “I can’t… If I let you close again… I won't be able to put myself back together another time.” She wrapped her arms around herself, a gesture of protection and comfort.

He had to turn away then, to gather himself. It felt like the ground was crumbling underneath his feet, and his Sight pressed against his mind like a panther waiting to pounce in his moment of weakness. Whatever it might show him now, he knew he didn’t want to see. “I was never gone. I was there, watching, when you transformed and killed the cultists. I did get a bit lost when my body went to Artaeum, but I followed the sound of your voice. I heard your conversation with Celarus… and after,” he said, his eyes bright with remembered emotion. “I couldn’t break through alone. When you left I almost… lost myself, and when I did return, and Razum’dar told me that you instructed him to say that you were dead…” 

“I wanted you to think I was dead so you could… move on, heal… Just…. be free of me,” she whispered tearfully. “Three times you came close to death. Three times it was my fault. How could I possibly let you find me? Next time you won’t make it, and I will have your blood on my hands. I can’t, Oliver… I love you too much.”

He shook his head in denial. “Do you think I enjoy it, knowing that I could not protect you, that I still can’t? But I would rather spend my last hour fighting to reach you than a thousand years alone, if I had every book in the universe. Without you, my life is meaningless, just moving from distraction to distraction until someone finally puts me out of my damned misery. I would rather try for a moment of joy than accept an eternity of nothingness,” he said, his fists clenched. “But if this is anyone’s fault it is mine. Mephala made me a vampire, you know, as some sort of insult to Molag Bal. She had been searching for me, and only turned to you because I couldn’t be found.”

“No one could ever protect me, Oliver,” she whispered, “I’m a chess piece pushed from one mess into another, the hand that guides my fate a different one each time but always as cruel. You don’t deserve to be dragged along. To be hurt over and over again, because that is what I will do, time after time, whether I want it or not. You heard Sotha Sil. Even he thinks I am cursed. Mephala would have never found you if it had not been for me.”

“Even if that were true, I would still accept that pain. Life is full of pain. Rhys, and I have had more than my share. But it is worth it, to me, to wake up next to you every morning, to have your love, if it leads me to the Spiral Skein itself. I would share every burden with you, if only you would let me.”

His throat was hot and tight, and he could feel himself shaking as he gripped the back of his chair, but he wouldn’t allow himself to fall apart. “But if you truly wish to be rid of me, I will leave. The Psijics have offered me a place, so you needn’t fear for my well-being. I would not cause you pain by remaining among your friends.” There were so many things he wanted to say, words of anger and love and grief, but they had all tangled up in his mouth, and what was the point of saying more? 

Still, the last words tumbled past his lips without his permission, ripped raw from the surface of his heart. “You are wrong to believe that I will move on, that I could, that I would want to. You may wish to forget me, but I will whisper your name with my dying breath and be glad to hear it.”

“I never said I want to forget you! I don’t think I ever could…. I want you to live! That’s all I want…” she said desperately. He could hear her trying the doorknob again. Razum’dar had done his work too well, and Oliver wasn't sure whether to bless him or curse his name.

He gathered up his cards, just to have to have something to do with his hands. Two cards slipped out and fell to the desk: The Star, The Loom. Not ones whose meanings he had memorized, but as soon as his fingers touched the first card the visions crashed over him.

He was surrounded by possibility, he could see it all around him like a net or a tapestry, each strand leading to a different possible future. Some were horrible, flicking past his eyes like nightmares, his body skewered on a silver stake, Rhys’s tombstone, crumbling to dust as he stood by unchanging. 

But not all of them were awful. Once again, he saw the future he might have, filled with love and laughter and family, things he could hardly believe. He reached for them anyway, but the moment he touched the strands of fate, the vision shattered. He came to on his knees again, tears standing on his cheeks. “Damn me to Oblivion,” he rasped.

**************** 

Rhys kept her face turned resolutely toward the door, even though every word was like a knife to her already fragile heart. She knew looking at him would be too hard; she would never be able to resist if she had to watch the pain in his voice reflected in his eyes. She just wanted him to understand that she was doing this for him. To keep him safe!

But he stopped speaking, and she heard a strange sort of pained gasp. Fear made her turn around. His eyes had rolled back into his head, and his mouth moved, but no sound came out. “Gods! Oliver, what’s wrong?” she called, rushing forward and catching him as he fell to his knees. Tears were running down his face, and her mind raced with terrifying possibilities. Poison, magic spells, some sort of terrifying Daedric possession?

Slowly, his eyes cleared. He cursed under his breath, and she cupped his face is her hands, looking him over with concern. “What in bloody Oblivion was that?! Are you okay? Are you hurt?! Do you need a healer?!” she asked, her voice trembling.

His expression relaxed somewhat. “That was a vision. I wasn't able to tell you before, but I might have come after you much sooner, except that Mephala blew open the seal that was placed on my Sight when I was a boy. It went out of control, and Celarus and the other Psijics had to teach me how to reign it in. I haven't always succeeded. Sometimes the visions can be overwhelming when they catch me unaware.”

She drew in a sharp breath, remembering what he had told her about his mother, how the Sight had made her frail, directly contributing to her death. Looking at him now, she could see the signs of strain in the gauntness of his face and the shadows around his eyes. It was almost as if he had aged a few years in the two months they'd been apart, which was impossible. “Will you be okay?”she asked in a small voice.

He met her eyes then, and something like a weary smile crossed his face, “I will be. Though I'll never be quite… what I was, I wouldn't necessarily say that it's a bad thing, or at least, not as bad as I expected it to be. It is rather inconvenient, however, and so I won't be partaking in combat any time soon, unless I have no choice.”

Rhys felt like now was the time to move away, but his eyes seemed to hold her in place. “What did you see?” she finally asked, needing to break the silence that was stretching between them.

“Possibilities, good and bad,” he answered. “It was a warning to me, I suppose, not to let you get away.” His expression turned determined. Her heart raced and she wasn't even sure why. “And so I won’t.” He pulled her close against his chest. “You gave your word that you would be mine, if we survived, and here we are, more or less intact. Do really think you can cheat me out of my well-deserved reward?”

She wanted to fight, to push him away, to protest that since Mephala was still around causing trouble, he could hardly hold her to that promise now. But it felt so good to be held by him, and then he kissed her so thoroughly she thought she could taste all of his love and longing on her tongue. Her resistance melted away. His scent curled around her like a warm blanket, and tears started welling up in her eyes. She loved him so much that the intensity of it stole her breath.

Kissing him back was the natural response, and her arms snaked around his neck as her lips moved against his with growing hunger. Her fingers threaded through his hair. A part of her mind told her to stop. If she let him in now, she would never get free, it said, but she lacked the strength to pull away from his embrace. He wouldn't let her go, and she was somehow grateful for it.

“Cariad,” he whispered, bringing up one hand to caress her face. “How I have missed you.” He kissed her again and again, his lips moving to her cheek, her jaw, her neck, like he would draw her into reality with a constellation of kisses.

“I'm sorry, I’m sorry,” she murmured against his mouth. “I only wanted to protect you.”

“I know,” he said softly, “but we are stronger together. Without you, who will keep me out of mischief?” She let out a strangled sort of laugh, resting her forehead against his. He sighed out a long breath. “I love you, Rhys. I will never stop loving you, there is nothing you can do about it,” he said, punctuating his words with more kissing. It felt like setting down a heavy bag after a long journey. Though she had tried desperately to flee from this truth and what it represented, she knew she was finally home.


	11. Another Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lovers’ reunion is interrupted by an unexpected enemy. The battle goes awry, forcing Oliver to make a deal with Azura to save Rhys’s life.

Rhys leaned into his touch, gasping softly when he pressed his lips to the sensitive spot on her throat. She pulled him closer, covering his face in feverish kisses. “I love you,” she murmured into his ear, burying her nose in his hair and breathing deeply. He knew she was taking in his scent, savoring it the same way he was hers.

“Even when I was lost in Aetherius, when I could hardly breathe through my visions. I remembered that you said you loved me. It is the best thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

Her lips curved upward in a gentle smile. “I'm not leaving you again, I promise,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his.

“Cariad,” he murmured. “I’m sorry to have frightened you. We will have to be careful in the future. But if anything does happen, know that I will never stop trying to reach you, even if I have to fight all the damned Daedra alone.” His expression was fierce for a moment before he returned to the task of kissing her thoroughly. She met him with equal intensity, taking his face between her hands, her tongue slipping inside his mouth.

Every kiss felt like it was stitching him back together, but more than that, it reminded him how much he had longed for her, physically. Even when his despair was at its greatest, his thoughts had often turned to this, her body, her kiss, her hands on his skin. “As charming as this outfit is, I’d much prefer if it was elsewhere,” he murmured against her throat, his fingers snaking under the edges of her armor. “I want to show you how much I have needed you. Ideally, in the bed.” He nuzzled her neck, his kisses turning into playful bites.

Rhys chuckled softly. “Outfit? That is traditional bosmer armor made to give me the most possible speed and flexibility,” she said with an almost scolding tone. Even so, her fingers slid through his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp.

“It’s delightful, to look at, at least. I confess I would be a bit concerned about the well-being of my stomach in such armor,” he said, running his fingers lightly over the bare skin of her midriff.

“Keep mocking it, sweetie,” she said with an eyebrow arched in challenge. “You know this is unisex armor. You’re tall for a bosmer, but I bet I could find a set that would fit.” 

“I’m not mocking,” he said. “I sincerely doubt it would be nearly as attractive on me.” She was soft and warm, but powerful under his hands, dangerous as an open flame. Even his most vivid dreams had not really been able replicate this, the way she drove him wild. She grabbed his wrists, sliding his hands up her back.

“Three hooks and it should come off,” she whispered into his ear before sinking her teeth into the lobe. 

“How convenient,” he said, pressing his body into hers as he reached back to find the clasps. The nip to his ear made him gasp sharply, arching his body into her by instinct. He bit back a curse. It had been so long; he burned with impatience, and when his mouth met her neck again, his teeth left marks on her skin.

It only took a moment, once he found the hooks, to free her from the leather bodice and bare her breasts. He covered them in adoring kisses and caressed them with his fingertips, torn between the desire to worship every inch of her body and to have her right this minute. Either way, the floor was cold and hard. He stood and lifted her up in one smooth motion, only stumbling on his way to the bed because he didn’t want to stop kissing her, and they tumbled haphazardly onto the blankets, landing with her on top. “This is much better,” he said, grinning up at her.

Her laugh was joyful, but her eyes were fiery with passion as she sat astride his hips, rolling languorously against him as her hands slid over his chest. Every part of his being was focused on her, her scent and the sound of her laughter, the staccato rhythm of her heartbeat and every place where her body pressed into his. He groaned, having lost the power of speech. 

“I sure hope you have a spare shirt,” she said, her voice husky with desire. The words barely registered before she ripped his shirt open, sending buttons flying. Her fingers left trails of heat down his chest as she raked him lightly with her nails.

He laughed, surprised but also not a little aroused by her small display of ferocity. “A sacrifice I do not mind making,” he said, sliding his fingers along her spine and down to her hips, trying to navigate the buckles of her pants while continuing to kiss her. If only he’d learned to magic away clothes… a grievous oversight.

************************

Every kiss, every touch seemed to ignite a fire in her veins, burning through her body from belly to fingertips. She shivered at the sensation of his cold fingers as they cupped her breasts, cooling heated skin, but she wanted more. To have his weight pressing her into the mattress while her hands roamed over his body. Gods, she had missed him, and part of her wanted to lay him flat and map every inch of him with her mouth, but her need for him was too strong.

With an almost frustrated groan, she helped him unbutton her breeches, rolling onto her side so she could struggle out of them. Oliver was fumbling with his own buttons. “Don’t make me rip your pants off too,” she murmured before pulling him back into a hungry kiss.

“Don’t do that. I only have two pairs of pants,” he said raggedly, flinging away the remnants of his shirt and pushing his pants over his hips and letting them fall to the floor. She couldn't respond, breathless at the sight of him bared before her. Some part of her had forgotten how beautiful he was, even now, with faint lines of silvery scars marring his marble skin. She wanted to cover those marks with some of her own, as if erasing them from view might erase the past all together.

His body slid over hers, and she gasped at the shock of his cold skin against her heat. He palmed her breasts in both hands, drawing her lips between his teeth in a kiss that was almost frantic. She felt swallowed by him, his long arms encircling her, and even as thin as he was, her legs barely went around his waist. His weight held her in place in a way that might have once been claustrophobic but now was delicious evidence that he was here, alive and all hers. 

“Darling,” he murmured breathlessly. “I need to… if I wait another moment I may go mad.” 

"Take me then,” she purred, meeting his eyes fearlessly. “I'm yours.” It had been so hard to give him that before, and now she couldn't say it enough. There was answering light in his eyes, and he entered her slowly, shuddering as she took all of him. Nothing could ever compare to this, the way he felt inside her, filling her with the sweet ache of completion. 

***************

It was strange how those words affected him. A meaningless turn of phrase perhaps, to say ‘I’m yours,’ to a lover. But to him it felt like an acknowledgement of what was true; she belonged to him, or they belonged to each other, as surely as the stars belonged in the sky. It was a luxury he’d never allowed himself before, and certainly a privilege he thought he would never earn.

He kissed her like he was savoring a fine wine and slid inside her as slowly as he could manage, letting out a gasping sigh as her slick heat embraced him. He shuddered at the intensity of the sensation, and Rhys shivered too, cursing with her head thrown back. She was a masterpiece of flushed skin beneath him, her golden eyes glowing like the moon. Words could never truly capture the sight. He moved his hips, withdrawing almost completely before plunging back, burying himself to the hilt. The effort of control left him shaking, but he was so wild for her that he feared to let go too soon. 

She pulled him so deep that he groaned. He could feel her impatience, which he frankly shared. Today was not a day for lingering but for reclaiming. Her fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed her, open-mouthed and hungry. He snapped his hips forward and back, and she matched his pace so that they moved in perfect harmony, like the ebb and flow of the ocean and just as relentless.

He could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine. As much as he wanted to hold back, he yearned to let go. Her muscles tightened around him, her moans increasing in pitch. Pleasure leaped through him like lightning, and his thoughts dissolved, leaving nothing but instinct and sensation.

With one final thrust, ecstasy roared through him, and he stifled his moans against her neck, his muscles quaking as she climaxed around and beneath him. Her blissful cries were music; he would have swallowed them up like drops of honey if only he'd been able to move.

***************

Her thoughts returned slowly, meandering back into her skull like drunken moths, and that was fine. It was enough to have Oliver panting into the crook of her neck while she stroked her fingers over his shoulders. Finally he stirred, pressing a kiss to her sweat-damp cheek before rolling onto his back. 

She sat up and pulled at the blankets until she could get under them and flung them over him too, snuggling against his side and resting her head on his chest. The last time she'd done this had been in Artaeum, when the sound of his heartbeat had seemed like a hollow reminder that what truly made him the man she loved was gone. But now it was reassuring. She pressed her hand to his chest, sighing. “I missed you, my heart. I love you, so much.”

“Cariad,” he murmured against her hair. His arm settled around her waist, his thumb stroking the small of her back. “I cannot put into words how much I love you, how important you are to me.” She squeezed him tightly and he smiled, the kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Her heart felt overfull, but her body was heavy and sated. 

"I guess I can't kill Razum’dar anymore,” she murmured, a yawn escaping her.

Oliver's answering laughter vibrated in his chest. “Perhaps not. But if you’d like me to hold him while you punch him in the face once or twice... if I wasn’t a vampire, I might have had a heart attack when you burst through the door.”

They laid in silence for some time. Oliver waved his hand carelessly at the candles, and they extinguished in a puff of smoke. Rhys let her eyes fall closed, listening to the slow beat of her lover’s heart. Her heart beat more than fifty times for each one of his, and she wondered idly if that was part of the secret, some sort of time alteration that made him unaging. It didn't seem important. She might have gone to sleep if he hadn't spoken, his voice soft in the shadows. “Where did you go? When you left Artaeum, I mean.”

"For the first week I just... ran. I didn't know where to go,” she replied slowly, “I went back to the Brotherhood, but I couldn't stay. It was just like the first time I left you. The sound of their voices was like salt in my wounds. I thought I would lose my mind, but when I left, solitude and silence were worse." She wrapped her arms tighter around him, pressing a reassuring kiss to his chest, though she didn't know who she was trying to comfort, him or herself.

"Meanwhile, my dreams were absolutely mad. It was like the Spinner abilities I’d given up on were demanding to be used. Visions of spider webs and you... always you, so far away... and then finally the towers of Alinor in the distance. I decided I'd have to come here and see what was going on. I met Raz almost as soon as I arrived, and he lured me here.... I hope he’s just waiting downstairs and not on his way to get Ayrenn or worse."

Oliver nodded, idly twirling his fingers in the ends of her curls. “I almost stayed in Artaeum,” he admitted. “By the time I awoke, more than a month had passed since we were rescued from the temple. You could have been anywhere. But I had a vision... I saw you walking towards Alinor. I knew I had to try. I traveled to Ssummerset. Razum’dar found me after three days and convinced me to help him. Not that I took much convincing....

As far as I know, Ayrenn is in Elden Root. There have been all sorts of strange reports here, Daedric cults, giant spiders, dreugh. Everything has to be connected, but so far, we haven’t discovered how.”

Ryhs frowned, propping herself on an elbow to look at him. "What the bloody hell is she doing there? I hope the damn king isn't having another hissy fit,” she said, sinking back into his embrace with a sigh. "That man is bosmer through and through, a stubborn bastard."

Oliver snorted. “Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps I misheard,” he said, stroking his hand down her back again. “I haven't exactly been at my best. Now that you are here, we may have more options about where to go next. I don’t think Razum’dar quite trusted leaving me to my own devices for very long, but I would be nothing but a liability in battle.” 

She grinned. "You and Razum'dar seem friendlier than I would've thought possible. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were fond of him.”

Oliver scowled, which only made her laugh. “I appreciate his attempts to keep me from doing anything foolish, though I suspect that was for your sake more than my own. Raz is good at what he does, even if he is rather.... exhausting.”

“I learned a lot of my tricks from him,” she said with an upward flick of her eyebrows. “Remember that first night, when I jumped on you from the roof? He used that on me one too many times, and I threatened to slit his throat unless he taught me how.”

He snorted and shook his head. “I believe it. I got the very same greeting a few weeks ago upon my arrival in Shimmerine. I found it less amusing when it was a large smug cat, I assure you.” The image in her mind was hysterical, and it took her several minutes to recover. The offended look on Oliver's face didn't help, but finally she could take a few deep breaths, and she kissed his cheek as an apology.

He shook his head and yawned. “I suppose we should sleep though I would rather spend the rest of the day enjoying your presence.”

Rhys’s eyes grew heavy at the mention of sleep, and she gave him one last kiss before settling her head on his shoulder. "Sleep, my love. I am here by your side. No matter what your dreams and visions show you, I will still be here in the morning."

He closed his eyes as she kissed him, sighing with contentment. “Sleep well, cariad. I won’t be going anywhere either.” Rhys let her muscles relax, and she closed her eyes, the sound of his breathing lulling her easily to sleep. Her dreams were kinder than they had been in a long time.

*********************

There was a spider outside the door, trying to get in, its chitinous feet scraping the wood. Pounding, pounding on the door, any moment it would-. Oliver woke with a gasp. It had only been a dream, and Rhys was still curled against his side. The last candle had blown out, and it was dark.

But then someone did pound on the door. “This one hopes you are done making up and have not killed each other. There is something of a situation outside.”

Rhys groaned at the sound of Razum’dar’s voice and pulled Oliver back down into the bed. "Tell him the only situation we’ll be having is me shoving my foot so deep up his arse that you can see my heel coming out of his mouth,” she murmured. With her arms around him, it was hard to think of any emergency worth getting up for. He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The pounding continued. "What do you want Raz?! I swear to Y’ffre this better be good!" Rhys called, not as yet making any move to get out bed. 

“Raz already knows the danger of waking kitten too early. But there is an army of dreugh on Shimmerine’s doorstep. Both of you will need to help,” Raz said through the door.

“Damn,” Oliver murmured. “Come on, darling. If they ransack the town, we won’t have a bed to laze around in,” he said, pressing one last kiss to her cheek. Then he got up and started hunting for his clothes. Rhys spat out a somewhat more vehement string of curses than usual and started to do the same.

A few minutes later, he slung his coat over his shoulders. It seemed like despite his efforts to avoid combat, he would have to deal with it anyway. “I’ll try to keep you covered with wards. The dreugh have shock abilities that we will all have to be careful of.”

"Why the bloody hell are those fuckers back in the game anyway?!" she growled as she tightened the weapon belt around her hips.

“Gods know. There were some problems with the dreugh in Stormhaven, years ago, but I thought that had been sorted.” He reached out to open the door, but she grabbed his wrist, her eyes fierce and pleading.

"Don’t exhaust yourself on my behalf. Please… I can't lose you again.” The fear he saw in her face was one he knew well, the terror of continuing alone in a world that would lack all color and meaning.

He pulled her close, brushing his thumb over her cheek and kissing her soundly. “I’ll be careful,” he said, nodding to the yew staff he'd pulled from behind the wardrobe. “Although I don’t prefer it, I have learned traditional wizardly battle techniques that should keep me out of trouble.”

She nodded and threw open the door. For a moment she glared at Raz like she was actually contemplating punching him, but then she shook her head and smiled. He grinned rather smugly. “This one is glad to see you both in one piece. And fully dressed.” Rhys rolled her eyes, and the khajit chuckled. “Raz would tease more but there are monsters to be killed. Follow this one.”

The sounds of battle grew louder as they made their way to the city gates. Civilians were fleeing in all directions, their eyes wide with fear, and upon seeing this, Rhys grabbed Oliver’s arm, her expression fierce. “You should secure an evacuation route for the people while Raz and I go to help the guards.”

He almost protested, though her tone suggested she would accept no debate. The thought of being parted from her again so soon made him feel sick to his stomach. But she was right. The civilians needed help, and he was the best equipped to give it. And that would keep him out of the thick of battle where he would be most vulnerable. He nodded, his throat tight. “I'll make sure they get out safely.”

“We’ll meet up after the dreugh are gone, I promise,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He breathed her in, one arm tight around her waist, and then she dashed away,

“This way!” he shouted to the fleeing citizens. “Behind me!” They looked toward him, wide-eyed, and in their terror, it only registered that he looked capable and unafraid. No one seem to notice he was a vampire, or if they did, they didn't care.

In a moment, civilians were flooding the alley behind him. He slammed his staff on the ground, conjuring a barrier he learned in Artaeum years ago that slowed the dreugh’s approach. “Now run! Run toward the docks!” There was a side exit of sorts, if you crossed the bridge and jumped over a flower bed, that led up into the hills to the east of the city, and that was the way he led them.

************

The battle was tougher than Rhys expected. She'd forgotten how difficult the dreugh were to kill. Even working in concert with Raz to cut down every enemy in their path, it felt like they were barely making a dent; they just kept coming. But Oliver was waiting for her, and the thought kept her fighting. She was so focused on killing the creature in front of her that she didn't notice the change in the air. 

A jolt of lightning sent her flying, and she screamed as all her muscles spasmed and burned. Her body landed on the wet ground with a heavy thud. Pain stabbed through her side, and she groaned. Another rib cracked.

Her vision was blurry as she struggled to her feet. Raz called her name and she turned toward the sound. She couldn’t see him. Everything was chaos, yelling and the angry chittering and clicking feet of the dreugh. White-hot agony exploded in her back, and she couldn’t even scream. She felt cold. A huge claw, grotesque and shining with fresh blood, was sticking out of her belly. She had been… impaled? Her brain couldn't even process it.

Blood pooled in her mouth, and she gagged, her knees buckling. The claw was ripped from her flesh with a sickening squelch. The world was spinning. She thought she could see the stars, but then the horrible alien visage of a dreugh swam into view.

Her last thought was of Oliver. She had broken her promise again. Everything went dark.

**************

As the last family crossed the bridge, he blasted the dreugh that was following them with a lightning bolt and erected a wall of ice to discourage any followers, though most of the dreugh seemed to have retreated to the main group. When he made it to the top of the hill, the citizens were huddled together in fear, but they were safe. One of them had erected a ward, another was bandaging wounds. Oliver wasn’t particularly useful here, and he could hear the sounds of battle at the front gate.

His heart thudded with the thought that even now Rhys could be injured, as unlikely as it might be. “Stay here until someone comes for you. I’ll send the guard when it’s safe,” he said to the group. Some of them nodded, distracted by their own woes. He went back down the hill at a leaping run.

The road around the front gate was littered with bodies, mostly dreugh, but every so often there was an altmer or a khajit scorched by lightning or mutilated by claws. No one he knew, thank the gods. He tried not to think about it,heading in the direction of the sounds of ongoing battle. There were only half a dozen dreugh left, it seemed, and a flash of red caught Oliver’s eye, drawing him forward. A battered looking dreugh reared up in front of him, and he dispatched it with a fire bolt. 

The tide of battle seemed to part around him and he saw Rhys gutting one if the creatures with a snarl. But a spell threw her backward with a scream. He started to run. She got to her feet, and then it was like time slowed. A huge dreugh skittered behind her, stabbing a claw right *through* her torso. His insides went cold as he saw her fall and the dreugh cast a spell...

He hit it in the face with the end of his staff and made fire rain down on the battlefield, filled with so much rage and fear that he didn’t even feel how drained he was until the dreugh were gone, and he had sunk to his knees next to Rhys.

The wound was healing, not nearly as fast as he would have, but he could see the blood clotting and hear her heart beating, weak and thready. He reached inside his coat and grabbed at a bottle of blood, downing the potion in one gulp. His time in Artaeum had not been completely absorbed in melancholy. Before he left, he had learned one healing spell for just such a situation, and now he gathered her up and pressed his palm to her chest. His hand bloomed with golden light and the wound started to close. Footsteps approached behind him, and his free hand went to his discarded staff.

“Oliver! Please tell this one she is not...” Raz couldn’t even say the words. Oliver didn’t speak until the wound was closed over, sweeping her hair back from her face. Her eyes were tightly closed, and lifting an eyelid only revealed the white.

“No,” he answered finallly, his voice rough with fatigue and fear. “But something *is* wrong. She should be awake.” Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, a vision rolled over him.

Rhys was in Coldharbour, hanging between chains made of dark magic. He expected her to be furious, threatening Molag Bal with a fresh beating. But she was just hanging there, lifeless. Part of him was aware of tears running down his face. His mind was racing with plans of how to rescue her and then, the last thing he saw was a symbol, one he had not seen for a century or more.

He came back with a gasp. “She’s in Coldharbour, somehow. Is there a Temple of Azura nearby?”

“There is, near Lilandril, though Raz is not exactly on speaking terms with Daedric cultists. Even the nice ones,” Razum’dar answered warily.

Oliver stood, lifting Rhys in his arms. “I can handle that. They owe me a favor.”

The priests of Azura were wary of letting a vampire close, of course. But he begged to only be allowed inside the sanctuary to speak to their lady, and perhaps they were moved by the sight of Rhys unconscious in his arms. The sigil of the Psijic Order helped too, even if he was only a candidate for entry. He carried Rhys into the cathedral, refusing all offers of help. There was no way he was letting go of her unless he had to in order to rescue her.

He knelt in front of the statue, at least ten feet tall with eyes of crystal, but before he could even open his mouth, the eyes blazed with light.

“What business has a vampire in the temple of Azura?” spoke the Daedric Prince, her voice powerful and weirdly echoing.

“My name is Oliver Davies-Thorne. I have aided you in the past, and now I seek a boon in return,” he answered, trying to keep his voice steady. He couldn’t lose Rhys again, not now.

“The flavor of your spirit is familiar. Yes. You assisted the priests of Pariah Abbey many mortal years ago, on behalf of your King,” Azura said. “And now, your lover has been taken by Molag Bal, her spirit shattered. You wish my aid in returning her to herself.”

“I know that you are sometimes allied with Molag Bal, but I have Seen your symbol in vision. I believe only you will be able to help me.”

“Molag Bal and I have not been on civil terms since the Soulburst,” Azura replied tersely. “I should still be able to get you past the bulk of his protections, but you will have to find the fragments of her soul on your own.”

Oliver swallowed. Traveling in Coldharbour alone, especially in his current less than ideal physical state, was not his idea of a good time. But he would leave it to no one else. Even if he trusted Razum’dar more than he used to, recovering Rhys’s soul was too important, too delicate. “I will do it. What can I bring inside? Anything? Nothing?”

“Only your spirit will go. My priests will watch over you, this I promise. And you may be pleased to know that the visions will not trouble you in Coldharbour. Your sight comes from the Aedra, and their presence is not welcome near the Lord of Domination without great effort.”

That was one less thing to worry about. “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “I am ready to start as soon as possible.”

He informed Razum’dar of the situation as quickly as he could while a group of priestesses prepared a chamber for the ritual. “Are you sure these priests can be trusted, my friend? Could we not return to your friends in Artaeum, or contact the Mages’ Guild?”

“I don’t know anyone from the Guild here well enough,” Oliver replied, shaking his head. “We would have no reason to trust each other. And I don’t want to take the chance that moving her body between realms will disrupt the connection with her spirit. That was how I was nearly lost, and it was a journey that I have made many times before.”

Razum’dar grimaced, worry clouding his eyes. “This one does not have any connections that can aid her. Not on such short notice. If you are certain, then this one will return to Shimmerene. The people will need help cleaning up that mess, and the Queen will need to be informed.”

Oliver nodded. “This isn’t ideal, but it’s the best plan I can imagine, at present. It may take days. You should make sure the civilians have returned safely. I won’t leave here until Rhys has recovered.”

Less than an hour later, he laid Rhys in the center of a ritual circle, runes of protection and preservation drawn in her skin with his own hand. Her body would be kept in stasis until her soul was restored. It was the only thing he could be sure of. He kissed her brow lightly, and then there was nothing left to do but lay himself in the slightly different circle on the the other side of the room. 

It felt strange to submit to such a ritual willingly, but he trusted Azura to keep her word. This was his best chance to bring Rhys back, even if it was not much of a chance. “I am ready,” he said to the priestess standing at his elbow. They began to chant, and he glanced once more at Rhys’s still form before closing his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a Tumblr RP between my novel character, Oliver, and @pandasterns ESO character, Rhys. We love it so much we thought other people should read it. I’ve edited it mostly for typos and to consolidate POV changes into something less whiplash causing. If you like it, check out Oliver’s Tumblr, oliverdaviesthorne.


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